


A Happy Loving Pair

by roamingbadger



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, basically a Perthshire Cottage AU, because those are the best kind, kind of a slow burn?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingbadger/pseuds/roamingbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma's brother is getting married, and he's chosen a small cottage in Perthshire for the main event. Enter Scottish rainstorms, well-meaning matchmakers, Simmons family shenanigans, and one particularly attractive landlord by the name of Leo Fitz. What could possibly go wrong? A Perthshire Cottage AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "There is room in the smallest cottage for a happy loving pair." - Friedrich Schiller
> 
> Because I'm still not (and may never be) over 3.07, "Chaos Theory." This will probably only be a few chapters long and is meant to be a happy/rom-commy sort of fic without toooooo much angst. 
> 
> Also, this is my first fic in the Fitzsimmons fandom, even though I've been lurking for a while now. So, take pity on me... and please do leave a review. :)

           

* * *

 

             Jemma glanced down at her group text with her brothers for the fifteenth time that morning. Sure enough, the address they’d given her matched the building across the street: 5 Victoria Terrace, Crieff, Perth and Kinross PH7. And while it looked like the upper stories of the imposing gray structure were reserved for flats, the bottom floor was some kind of shop. A cheery sign above the door spelled out “Fitz Craft Garden and Tea Rooms.”

            She sighed as the bus that had just deposited her pulled away. She had no choice now but to give it a try. Besides, she vaguely remembered that name, “Fitz,” from something her brother Arthur had mentioned. Crossing the street, Jemma hesitated one more second outside the shop windows before pushing her way through the door.

            A bell jingled as the door shut behind her, lending its cheery voice to the cozy atmosphere inside the shop. Patterned tablecloths covered the cluster of tables in the front, and beyond, Jemma spotted a wall of loose-leaf tea and its various accessories for sale. The shop was warm, unlike the nasty December weather outside, and as Jemma unwound the scarf from her neck, she felt some of her stress unwind, too. That didn’t happen often, lately.

            Behind the counter at the back of the shop, a middle-aged woman with freckles and curly gray-brown hair greeted Jemma with a smile. “Hello, dear,” she said, her Scottish accent somehow as comforting as the rest of the shop. “How can I help you?”

            “Oh, well, I’m actually looking for Catriona. My brother told me she would be here. I’m Jemma Simmons.” She made her way back to the counter as she spoke, eying the wall of tea in her peripheral vision as she went. Even if this was the wrong place, she was tempted to make a few purchases before leaving.

            “Simmons—oh yes! Here about the cottage, are you?” The woman’s smile widened, and Jemma couldn’t help but give her a cautious smile in return. “I’m Catriona Fitz. Pleasure to meet you, dear.”

            Jemma shook the woman’s proffered hand. “Nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Fitz.”

            “Please, call me Catriona.” The woman gave Jemma’s hand a final squeeze before dropping it and opening a drawer behind the counter. “Now, you’re checking in for a two-week visit, isn’t that right? And what brings you to Perthshire, Miss Simmons?”

            “Please, call me Jemma,” she echoed. Catriona gave Jemma a brief, acknowledging smile as she continued to dig through the drawer. “My brother’s getting married here, actually,” Jemma continued. “My parents rented the cottage for the family before the wedding.” And a few family friends, Jemma thought, but she didn’t want to bore this woman with her complete family history. The Simmons-and-friends could be an eclectic bunch.

            “Oh, a winter wedding! How lovely.” Catriona was such a cheerful woman, she made it impossible not to feel a bit uplifted. Jemma continued to relax as Catriona bustled about behind the counter. After a minute longer, the older woman pulled out a leather-bound notebook and a large, ancient-looking cluster of brass keys. “Now, don’t be intimidated,” Catriona said when she caught Jemma staring at the keys. “I know they look old, but we’ve made a few renovations to the cottage since the locks were put in. Everything’s in working order.”

            “I’m sure,” said Jemma politely, but as Catriona pointed out the gate key, the front door key, the back door key, and the key to the separate garage, each one looked older than the last. By the time house rules had been explained and identification cards had been checked, Jemma felt a bit of her previous anxiety creeping up again.

            “And if anything should go wrong, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me,” said Catriona, catching Jemma’s serious expression. She scribbled down a number on the packet of papers about the cottage. “Here’s the flat number—I live just above the shop—and if I don’t answer, you can always call my son on his mobile.” Catriona scribbled a second number after the first. Handing over the papers, she told Jemma rather sheepishly, “I never could get the hang of the whole mobile thing.”

            Jemma managed a weak smile, but she was internally cursing her family for making her come up on her own and check them all in. Just because she was closest—and the three-hour trek from St Andrews involving a train and two buses had not exactly felt “close”—they’d made _her_ the one whose name would be on all the papers. At least her parents had paid up front. Her credit card couldn’t exactly handle the rental fees at the moment.

            “Sign here, dear,” said Catriona, turning the leather-bound book towards her and pointing at a line. “And initial at the bottom.”

            Jemma followed her instructions, put the cottage papers in her handbag, and thanked Catriona before turning to leave. She hesitated halfway to the door and turned back. “Um—sorry—Catriona? Could you perhaps tell me when the next bus is stopping outside?”

            “The Number 15, dear? Are you planning to take it to the cottage?” Catriona, for the first time since Jemma had walked in, was no longer smiling. She was frowning through the shop windows at the bitter, gray sky. “It’s a bit of a trek once the bus drops you off at Fowlis Wester, you know. Would you like a lift? My son could take you. He’s just upstairs—”

            “Oh, no thank you,” said Jemma hastily. As kind as Catriona clearly was, Jemma didn’t much fancy a trip out to a secluded cottage with a complete stranger.

            “Are you sure? I reckon it’s going to rain this evening—”

            “Oh, it’s all right, I’ll be fine on my own.” Jemma smiled to take the edge off her words, then hesitated and turned toward the street again.

            “If you’re sure,” said Catriona doubtfully from behind her. “Call if you need anything, mind.”

            “Thank you,” Jemma replied, waving once more before she left the shop.

 

* * *

 

            “I’ll be fine on my own,” Jemma repeated to herself. No matter how often she said it, circumstances continued to disprove her, for she was currently wandering down a muddy, unlit road in the pouring rain, with no mobile service. And she was starting to admit, albeit grudgingly, that she was _not_ fine. “Bloody Scotland,” she muttered, just to change things up.

            The sky had gotten dark while she waited for the Number 15 bus to Fowlis Wester, which meant that by the time it dropped her off twenty minutes later at the village, she still had thirty minutes of walking in the dark before she reached Catriona’s cottage. Five minutes into _that_ and the rain had begun. Working on her fellowship at St Andrews had taught Jemma to always carry a waterproof coat in Scotland, but this particular downpour was unhindered by such useful inventions, and in no time at all, she was soaked to the skin, cold, and a little bit worried, for no cottage drive had appeared.

            And now, she realized when she squinted through the rain to check her watch, she’d been walking for well over an hour. She cursed again, tried to kick a stone across the road, slipped in the mud, and fell flat on her back, handbag, suitcase, and all.

            Some time later, she managed to right herself and stumble to the protection of the trees at the side of the road. The rain lessened enough for her to pull out her phone. “Please please please please please,” she muttered, clicking through the lock screen, and then, “Oh, thank God!”

            She had one bar of service.

            Jemma rifled through her mud-spattered handbag, pulling out the papers from Catriona (which were soaked in about a minute). Fortunately, the phone numbers remained intact. Jemma frantically dialed the first one and, though the tone was a bit fuzzy, she heard it ring and let out a sigh of relief—

            --which just as quickly became a groan of disappointment when the ringing continued until it switched to a machine. Catriona’s cheery voice said, “You’ve reached Catriona Fitz. I’m away from the phone at the minute, but leave a message—”

            Jemma hung up and, throwing caution to the winds, dialed the second number. It rang again—a bit fuzzily, like before—but this time, after a few rings, someone picked up.

            “Hello?” he said, his tone confused and almost drowsy, as if he’d been asleep.

             Jemma checked her watch again. It was half past five! Hoping she wasn’t about to regret her decision, she said, “Hello, is this—” she squinted at Catriona’s handwriting next to the numbers—“Leo Fitz?”

            “Just Fitz, actually,” he said, and he definitely sounded irritated now. “Who’s this?”

            “Jemma Simmons. Your mum gave me your number, in case of emergency.”

            “Oh, yeah.” She heard dull sounds in the background—rustling papers and a few thumps. “Mum’s downstairs closing up the shop. What’s the emergency?”

            “Well . . .” Jemma sighed. There was nothing for it—she’d already called him, after all. “It’s just that—I seem to have gotten a bit lost.”

            There was a long silence, punctuated by static due to their bad connection. It lasted so long that Jemma thought she might’ve lost the call, but she checked the phone and it was still going. “Hello?” she said after a while.

            “Yeah, sorry, I’m here. Did you say—lost?”

            “Yes.” It was Jemma’s turn to sound irritated, though it was mostly at herself. So much for not regretting this. “I was planning to walk to the cottage from the bus stop, but I seem to have missed the drive, because I’ve been walking for an hour now, and—”

            “Oh, yeah, you’ve passed it, then,” he said, and she heard more sounds in the background. Was he even listening to her?

            “I know I’ve passed it,” she said through gritted teeth. “That’s why I called. I was wondering if I could speak to your mum. Maybe she could give me some directions?”

            “No need,” he said. “I’ll come give you a lift.”

            “That’s not—”

            “Look, my mum’s still got a customer and it’ll be a while. What do you look like?”

            “I’m sorry?” What kind of mad person was on the other end of this phone? Jemma thought about hanging up, but just at that moment, the rain seemed to get worse—if that were possible.

            “What do you look like?” he asked again, more loudly, as if worried that she actually hadn’t heard him. Jemma held the phone away from her ear. “So I can find you on the road,” he continued, enunciating every word.

            “It’s not exactly packed with people,” she muttered, staring out at the dark, desolate wilderness, but before he could speak, she said, “I’ve got on a black coat and red scarf, and I’m carrying a brown handbag and suitcase,” she said, staring down at herself at she spoke.

            “Fine,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

            “Thank y—” Jemma started, but she was interrupted by a dial tone. He hung up! Shoving her phone into her purse, Jemma attempted to brush some of the mud off herself from her fall, rather more violently than necessary. How could a woman like Catriona have a son like _that_? It was hard to tell from his voice, but he sounded like an adult—at least out of his teenage years, Jemma thought, though his behavior had been no indication of maturity. Her clothes as salvageable as possible under the circumstances, Jemma collected her belongings and began walking back in the direction she had come, hoping the rain would wash off the rest of the mud—and cool her temper.

            She had more success with the former by the time headlights appeared on the muddy road. Feeling like a drowned cat—both in appearance and temperament—Jemma waved down the driver, who pulled up beside her, barely managing to avoid splashing mud all over her again. Jemma sucked in a breath to let him know exactly what she thought of that, but when he opened the door and jumped out to help her, her words froze on her tongue.

            Fitz was not at all what she expected him to be. He looked to be in his early twenties—close to her own age, she figured—and though he was small and wiry, barely taller than her, his face was open and engaging. Pasty, but handsome. And his eyes—even in the darkness, and the pouring rain, they caught her attention and held it. So much so that she forgot to listen to what he was saying.

            “—Get in,” he shouted over the now-pounding rainfall, prying the suitcase from her cold fingers so he could shove it in the boot. He had a hood up over his light brown curls. When he slammed the boot shut and hurried back to the driver’s side, Jemma jumped to life and scrambled around to the passenger seat.

            The rain was even louder once they were both in the car and the doors were shut. Some kind of music was playing—indie rock, it sounded like to Jemma, and the singer had a heavy Scottish accent, but Fitz shut it off in a hurry before she could make out the words. He pulled on his seatbelt and glanced over at her, raising his eyebrows, waiting.

            “Oh!” she said, and pulled on her seatbelt as well. She was normally very safety-conscious, but some part of her brain had stopped working as soon as he jumped out of that car. As her seatbelt clicked into place over her soaking wet clothes, she remembered how to form basic words, and she said, “Thank you.”

            “No problem,” he responded in a mumble, barely audible over the sound of the rain. He turned the car around through the mud and began driving back towards Fowlis Wester. Jemma thought he still sounded a bit grumpy, and she reminded herself that even though he was quite handsome, he had been rather rude on the phone. Or at least odd. She stared determinedly out her passenger window, watching the rain slide across the glass. All she had to do was make it to the cottage and into a hot shower, and then this miserable evening would be over.

            It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before Fitz was turning the car off the road onto a gravel drive, but to Jemma, it felt like hours. Sitting in awkward silence, with nothing but the rain and a serious, silent Fitz for company, she thought she might go mad. She checked her phone once, but the light was bright in the dark car, and besides, what little service she’d had before seemed to be gone by then.

            Jemma did make a small sound when the cottage came into view at last. It was lovely, built of the same gray brick as the village and sprawling out behind its quaint stone wall. A pair of wrought-iron gates blocked the drive, and as Fitz slowed the car, Jemma dug in her handbag for the right key.

            Fitz glanced over to her. “Here, I can do it.”

            “No, it’s all right,” she said quickly. Their voices sounded loud after so much silence—or perhaps the rain had died down. “No use both of us getting drenched.” He didn’t have time to protest, for her fingers closed around the keys. “Ah ha!” she said, pulling them out of her bag. “Could you just remind me which is for the gate?” She held them out to him on her palm.

            He bent over her hand and reached out to sift through the large keys. His fingertip trailed across the sensitive skin of her palm, and Jemma couldn’t suppress a shiver.

            Fortunately, a second later he pulled his finger back and said, “Bloody hell, your hands are cold!” When she shrugged, feeling awkward, he pointed at a long, narrow key and said, “It’s that one.”

            “Right. Well, thanks for the lift. I really appreciate it.”

            “Are you mad? I’ll drive you up to the front door, at least,” he said. Not exactly what Jemma had expected as a response to her gratitude, but her wariness from before had all gone. Intuition told her she could trust this Fitz, despite his . . . grumpiness.

            “Okay,” she said. “Be right back.” Leaving her scarf and handbag where they’d fallen on the floor of the car, she hopped out and raced to the gate lock. Even knowing the right key, it took her a few seconds to get the lock open, and then she had to walk each side of the gate out until the car could fit through. She left the gate open and hurried back to the car, any part of her that had dried from before freshly soaked through. Ah, well. Her fingers and toes had gone a bit numb, so she couldn’t really feel the cold, anyway.

            When they reached the top of the drive, Fitz jumped out before Jemma could and retrieved her suitcase for her. He walked her up to the door and helped her choose the right key again. The lock opened much more smoothly this time.

            Jemma turned to him, the door partly open. He stood a step behind with her suitcase in hand, watching her, his eyes cast in shadow. “Well . . .” she said, waiting for him to hand over the suitcase and leave.

            “I’d better come in and make sure the electricity’s working,” he said, surprising her. “It hasn’t been turned on until yesterday. Same with the heat.”

            “Oh. Well . . . I mean, if you’re sure . . . I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”

            “No worries. Trust me, I wasn’t doing anything productive.” He indicated with the suitcase that she should go first, so she pushed through the door and into the cottage, where the pitter-patter of rain grew mercifully quiet as she shut the door behind them. She heard him fumbling in the dark for a light switch right before the hall light came on.

            The cottage entryway reminded Jemma forcefully of Catriona’s tea shop: a row of pegs lined the hall for coats, right above a wooden umbrella stand; at the end of the hall, carpeted wooden stairs twisted up from the ground floor. The walls were pale blue, except for the end of the hall, where a hand-painted branch of cherry blossoms in pink and gold reached toward a high, round window. “This place is lovely,” said Jemma, staring at the art.

            “Yeah, thanks,” said Fitz. “And the electricity’s working, which is good.” He set Jemma’s suitcase down on a wooden chest across from the umbrella stand. “I’d better check the heat, though. This place is freezing.” He turned back to face her and gestured down the hall, toward the mural. “Do you mind if I—? The heat controls are back there.”

            Jemma took a second or two to mumble “Yeah, of course, fine,” because she’d finally caught his eyes in the light, and they were rather stunning. The same color of blue as the walls, and very . . . earnest. As he walked down to the end of the hall, she turned away, just in case she was blushing, and busied herself with removing her coat and muddied boots. Once the coat had been hung and the boots deposited on a matt by the door, she realized how cold it really was in the hallway—blush or not—and she shivered again. Judging by the way her clothes were dripping on the carpet, she needed to get a better waterproof coat.

            “Can I make you a cup of tea?” Fitz had come back, so silently that Jemma jumped when he spoke. “I happen to know where everything is in the kitchen, and you look as though you could use it.”

            “Really, that’s very nice of you, but I shouldn’t keep you any longer,” she said, wringing out her shoulder-length hair so that she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. The strange part was how badly she suddenly wanted him to stay.

            “No, trust me, it won’t be a minute. And you should get into some dry clothes. You can catch cold up here, you know, when you stand in the rain for a couple of hours.”

            “Actually, it’s generally believed that the association between winter and illness is more behavioral than biological, although recent evidence—” She glanced over at him without really meaning to and caught his surprised expression. He’d only been teasing her, she realized a moment too late. Of course. Mentally berating herself, and now quite positive of the existence of some level of blush, she said, “Nevermind. Tea . . . would be great.”

            “The bedrooms are on the next floor,” he said, pointing up the stairs, now watching her with an unreadable expression. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

            Jemma thanked him and retrieved her suitcase, hurrying upstairs and choosing the first bedroom that she came across. It didn’t take her long to towel off, though she hesitated over what dry clothes to put on. Why did everything she packed suddenly look so . . . so . . . nerdy and boring? Realizing she was being ridiculous—after all, she’d probably never see this bloke after tonight—she pulled on a fresh bra and knickers, black sweatpants (albeit her “stylish” ones), and her favorite Doctor Who sweater. In doing so, she began to feel warm at last, and she sighed in contentment before she hurried downstairs.

            --and immediately regretted her decision, coming to a stuttering halt outside the kitchen door. Doctor Who sweater? _Loungewear?_ She could practically hear her friend Daisy admonishing her for her lack of “seductive powers” (why was it always in Daisy’s voice?). Not that there would be any seduction going on. Just a cup of tea.

            Jemma steeled herself and pushed through the doors, catching Fitz in the act of pouring the steaming kettle into two mismatched mugs. “I’m ashamed to say I could only find PG Tips. Don’t tell my—,” he was saying, and then he looked up and froze mid-sentence.

            Jemma had not blushed so much since the graduation ceremony for her second PhD, and even then, it was only because she had tripped up the stairs to the stage. “Yeah, I know, Doctor Who fan here—”

            But Fitz set down the kettle, shaking his head and smiling that strange half-smile he’d given her in the hallway. “No, no, it’s not that. You’ll never believe this.” And he started to unzip his own jacket, pulling it open and shedding water droplets everywhere to reveal—the same exact TARDIS sweater.

            Jemma’s jaw dropped. “What! No way. I bought this online! It’s a limited edition—”

            “Mine too,” Fitz said, letting the jacket fall closed, but the TARDIS still peeped through. “After the fiftieth anniversary episode, yeah?”

            “Well, yeah, but—” Jemma matched his smile, crossing the kitchen to retrieve her mug of tea. “What are the odds?”

            “Since we were born in the same generation, just in time for the New Who renaissance, and—let’s see—it’s December, so we’re a certain percentage more likely to wear sweaters—”

            Jemma frowned, assuming she was being teased for her outburst in the hallway, but to her surprise, Fitz was frowning, too—in concentration. “I meant that rhetorically, you know,” she said when he lapsed into silence.

            “Oh, I know,” he said, his eyes re-focusing on her. She was caught off guard by the transformation that came over his face when he smiled. They were not too far apart now, just a couple of feet, the steam from their tea rising between them into the cold room. “But I can never resist a good problem.”

            Jemma picked up her mug of tea and blew on it. “Really? Are you a scientist?” She heard the studied nonchalance in her voice and hoped that her affected casualness was not as obvious to _him_ when she asked the question.

            “Yes, actually. An engineer, primarily. Why—are you?” In his voice, she heard a challenge, as if perhaps he already suspected.

            She blinked and met his direct, intelligent gaze. “Yes,” she said. “Biochem. I work at St Andrews. Post-doctoral fellowship.”

            His gaze faltered, his brow wrinkling as he puzzled out this new information. “But you look about twenty.”

            “I am.” She felt the blush creeping back and took a hasty sip of tea to hide it, with the unfortunate result of burning her tongue. But the tea tasted amazing—PG Tips or not—as it spread through her and banished the last of the chill from the rain. Or maybe that was the blush. Dammit.

            “Now that’s just—weird,” he said suddenly, and Jemma glanced up in surprise. She’d heard that before, sure, but she hadn’t expected it somehow from Fitz, even if they’d only just met. It hadn’t exactly been easy, going through school at an advanced level—everyone around her was far older, which meant she never could make friends in her classes, and everyone of her own age wanted nothing to do with her. While she thought she’d be well hardened against all that by this stage of her academic career, hearing Fitz say those words hurt more than she anticipated. It was always when she let her guard down that people hurt her the most.

            Jemma sipped her tea again, hoping that if she drank quickly, he would leave sooner. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” she said, her happiness gone.

            “No, no, I mean—I mean because I’m a doctoral fellow, too. Er, was. Last year. And I’m twenty as well.”  
            Jemma nearly dropped her mug in surprise. She half expected that he was still teasing her, but when she met his gaze—so earnest and open, just like it had been when he first jumped out of that car in the rain—she knew he wasn’t lying. “What? Where? I mean, where were you working?”

            “MIT,” he said. He played with his tea bag, poking it about where it floated atop his tea, and she thought she detected a determination to avoid her eyes. He shrugged. “I graduated young, and they offered me a great chance, it’s just—well—I started to miss home, I guess. So here I am.”

            “Incredible,” Jemma said.

            He laughed, one of the first times she’d heard him laugh, only it was bitter and self-deprecating and Jemma disliked it instantly. “Not really. Pathetic, more like.”

            “No, I mean, it’s incredible to meet someone who’s—well—” A genius, she wanted to say, but it sounded a bit . . . gushing. Instead, she said, “Like me,” and then instantly felt a bit arrogant for equating the two. But at least he wouldn’t know it, not without reading her thoughts on top of everything else. Though, by their similarities, she was starting to think he could.

            “Yeah,” he said, wrapping both hands around his mug and holding it to his chest. It made him look somehow boyish, Jemma thought, but she liked it. “I suppose it is.”

            Though Jemma tried to make her tea last as long as possible, and she did manage to save a few swallows for when it had gone completely cold, their conversation still passed far too quickly for her liking. She told Fitz about her brothers, Henry and Arthur, and how their parents had booked the cottage for Henry’s winter Scottish wedding. He told her about working in his mother’s teashop and how she—Catriona—made most of the crafts for the “craft garden.” They discussed their favorite Doctors—Fitz was partial to Eleven, a blow which hit Jemma, a diehard Ten fan, very hard—and then their favorite episodes, and then, somehow, their current scientific projects. It was a rambling, meandering conversation, but somehow no discussion had passed more smoothly in Jemma’s memory, and before she wanted it to be, their tea was gone, and Fitz was checking his watch.

            “Bloody hell,” he said, practically jumping to standing from his barstool by the counter. “It’s half past nine!”

            “No—really?” Jemma checked her own watch and saw that it had stopped, probably due to inundation from her jaunt in the rain. Fantastic.

            “My mum will think I drowned or something,” he said half-apologetically as he shrugged on his jacket. He downed the last drops of tea from his mug. “Are you—are you going to be okay here by yourself? I mean, do you need anything?”

            Jemma was touched that he would ask. She couldn’t believe that a few hours earlier she’d been cursing him as the most ridiculous, irritating, grumpy young man she’d ever spoken to. “I’ll be fine,” she told him. “But—thank you.”

            He stopped part way through zipping up his jacket and smiled. Again, Jemma could not help but admire how it lit up his eyes, transforming his face. “Thank _you_ ,” he said. “That was the best cup of tea I’ve had in a while—and my mum owns a teashop.”

            Jemma laughed, and as if a spell had been broken, the frozen stillness passed and Fitz was headed toward the front door. She followed him, teasing, “Well, seeing as how _you_ made it—”

            “Okay, okay, I’ll take the credit, if you insist,” he said, talking back at her over his shoulder until he reached the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob and half-turned, so that he was clearly addressing her but didn’t have to meet her eyes. “Look,” he said, his voice closer to a mumble than it had been since the beginning of the evening, “if you—if you ever want to talk science again, or even Doctor Who, you know where to find me.”

            Jemma sucked in a deep breath, wishing he would look at her and wishing he wouldn’t because then he would surely see the traitorous flush that had decided to return. “Okay. Yeah. And _you_ know where to find _me_.”

            She thought she caught a half-smile, a curl of one side of his lips, and then he said, “Goodnight, Jemma.”

            He was gone before she could finish saying, “Goodnight, Fitz.”

 

* * *

 

            As soon as Fitz got back in the car, he sighed, leaving his keys dangling unused in the ignition. As much as he knew his mum would be a bit worried, he was in no hurry to leave the cottage, despite what he’d told Jemma, because he’d just spent with her his most enjoyable evening in a really, really long time.

            Going through school with girls who were several years older hadn’t exactly made Fitz a ladies’ man, and by the time he was working at MIT, he’d had so little experience compared to his peers that he was plain worried about how a date would go. A couple of students had asked him out once or twice, but they’d never done more than share drinks before Fitz was making excuses to end the evening early. Dating undergraduates as a post-doc? Even if they _were_ the same age, it was just—weird.

            When he’d been woken up from a mid-afternoon nap (that had, he was forced to admit, gone on rather longer than planned) by his mobile ringing, it’s possible that he hadn’t presented, well, the _best_ side of himself upon answering. He’d only been sleeping because he was up the night before working on a possible breakthrough for his “Golden Retriever” project. When his idea hadn’t panned out, _and_ he found himself sleep deprived, he’d become what his mother used to call a “grumpypuss.” (She hadn’t called him that since he turned twelve, but there were times when, secretly, he felt it was warranted. Though he’d never tell her that.)

            As he reflected back over the evening from his car in the cottage drive, Fitz realized how lucky he was that Jemma had given him the time of day. His irritation had completely evaporated when she climbed in the passenger seat: her clothes dripping, her hair plastered to her pale forehead, her eyes wide with an expression that was impossible to interpret. They were lovely, her eyes, he thought to himself, not for the first time in the past several hours. In fact, that thought had been running through his mind so loudly that he’d had trouble thinking of anything else to say, out of fear that he might blurt out something about her eyes instead. So he’d been awkwardly silent on the whole drive, of course, but she still hadn’t held it against him. And when she came downstairs in her sweatpants and her Doctor Who sweater, her hair all fluffy and damp from its hasty drying—well, he was fortunate that the sweater made a good excuse for the way he froze up. Because it wasn’t the only thing that had taken his breath away.

            And after that, it had been easy, oh, so easy to talk to her. Better than easy—it had been like drinking water for the first time, or hearing music, or watching the sunrise. It had been the discovery of something wonderful and the realization that his life had been—and would be—lacking, somehow, without it.

            Fitz shook his head and leaned forward to start the car. He was being ridiculous. It was _one_ conversation. Maybe this is just what it feels like, he thought, to go on a really good date. And it wasn’t even a date.

            He sighed as he twisted the keys and the engine roared to life. At least it seemed like she wanted to see him again. If anything, they could be friends, maybe even lab partners, since she’d been interested in his work.

            As he began to ease the car back down the drive, Fitz happened to glance over at the passenger side, perhaps missing the person who had been sitting there a few hours earlier. His eyes caught a splash of red, and he realized that Jemma had left her scarf. He stopped the car, hesitating, thinking he could run it up to her, but maybe she was already in the shower or—or asleep? And it would be much worse to interrupt her like a bumbling idiot. So, after some internal debate, he continued on down the drive, only stopping to shut and lock the gate behind his car as he left.

            And if some part of him was thinking that it made a good excuse to see her again, well, he supposed he could live with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely people who left kudos and reviews! I was so pleased and excited to hear you liked chapter one that I got working busily on the rest. I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter two: during which the Simmons brothers make an entrance, Daisy proves that Jemma is remarkably easy to hack, and Fitz cannot, apparently, take a hint.

           

* * *

 

            “That Jemma’s a nice girl, isn’t she?” asked Catriona from where she stood by the stove.

            Fitz glanced at his mum and back to the science journal he was reading at their kitchen table. By the innocent tone of her voice, he knew she was trying to discover more of how the previous evening had gone. All he’d said the night before was, “Jemma got lost and needed a lift,” before hurrying down the hall to his room.

            “From where, Edinburgh?” Catriona had called after him, half-joking, half-serious. After all, he’d been gone four hours. And why was he carrying a red scarf she’d never seen before?

            Not to be deterred that morning, she flipped over the bacon and continued, “Very pretty, and very polite, I’d say. Maybe a bit _too_ polite.”

            “Why do you say that?” Fitz asked. He tried to sound indifferent, and if his pulse had picked up a bit, well, it was only because he was on his second cup of coffee.

            His mum shrugged and dropped some bread in their toaster. “She was determined to walk to that cottage, despite the rain and everything. I said you could give her a lift, but—”

            “She’d only just met you,” Fitz said, more quickly than he meant to. “I mean, we could’ve been anyone. Axe-murderers, or something.”

            Catriona raised an eyebrow at him. “I certainly fit the profile.”

            “Ha, ha,” said Fitz, his voice dry, as his mum served up their breakfast. He set his journal aside to eat as she tactfully changed the conversation to the cold front predicted for the weekend. Fitz told himself he was relieved, but in reality, he felt a bit disappointed.

 

* * *

 

            By the time Jemma made it back to the cottage from her morning walk to Fowlis Wester, her arms were aching from the shopping she’d picked up, and her cheeks were bright red from the cold. Why, _why_ had her brother chosen to get married in Scotland in December?

            Twenty minutes later, while she was enjoying her tea and toast, that same brother’s name flashed on her mobile screen. “Henry!” she said, answering the call around a mouthful of food.

            “Ugh, Jem, don’t talk with your mouth full,” he said, in a very Henry-esque greeting.

            She washed down her toast with a sip of tea, then said, “Can’t wait to see you, either,” in the tone of a long-suffering sister who had endured plenty of Henry’s chiding. He took after their mother that way.

            “So how is it?”

            “What?”

            “The _cottage_ , Jemma. How is it in person?”

            Her brother sounded so excited, so nervous—and, yes, a bit single-minded, as was his tendency—that she couldn’t disappoint him. “The cottage is lovely,” she said, and that part was true. “It’s very cozy and secluded. The village is . . . quaint . . . and they’re saying it might snow this weekend. So maybe you’ll have a white wedding.”

            “The wedding’s not for two weeks, you know that,” he said, but he sounded distracted.

            Jemma sighed. Her brother could be very humorless sometimes. “Yes, Henry, I know that very well. It was a joke—”

            “Hang on, Jem, I’m passing you over to Arthur.” Jemma heard scratching on the other end of the line, and then her middle brother, who had been born with all the humor that Henry lacked and then some, spoke with a smile in his voice. “Jemma?”

            “Hey, Arthur,” Jemma said, grinning to herself in the empty kitchen. “So you got a lift with Henry, then?”

            “Yeah, we have the dubious pleasure.” Jemma heard Henry protest in the background, but his words were muffled. “Dev’s here, too.”

            Dev was Arthur’s boyfriend of seven-odd years and counting. He’d been a part of the family so long that Jemma thought of him as another brother, one much kinder than Henry or even Arthur—because he never teased her as mercilessly as they did. “Oh, great! Tell him hi from me,” she said.

            “I will, but first things first. What’s this I hear about you meeting a bloke last night?”

            “What?” Jemma asked, genuinely caught off guard, and then the realization hit her, and she groaned. “Daisy . . .”

            Arthur continued undaunted. “Two hours into this and Jemma’s got a romance going. I have to say, little sister, I’m proud.”

            Jemma buried her face in her free hand. She should’ve known better than to text Daisy before she fell asleep, but at the time, all she could think about was telling _someone_ about how much fun she’d had. Besides, Daisy had been her guide in all things dating up to that point, so she was the natural candidate. If only she could keep a secret. “I’m going to kill her,” said Jemma, more to herself than her brother, but he laughed.

            “But we’re all so happy for you, sis! God knows it’s embarrassing not to have a date to your own brother’s wedding. Now you can invite this Scottish lad—” Arthur said the last bit in a horrible Scottish accent.

            “Ugh, Arthur, never do that again. And he’s not my date to anything. He’s only given me a lift—”

            “Way to take advantage of your one night with the cottage to yourself,” Arthur continued, as persistent as ever. “I mean, it’ll be hard to find _privacy_ once we all arrive—”

            “Which will be when?”

            “Hmm, let’s see . . . maybe three hours? So make sure he’s showered and gone by then.”

            “You’re impossible,” Jemma said through gritted teeth. “Unless you have anything sensible to say, I’m hanging up now.”

            “I’m always sensible, Jemma, dear. You know that.” But Arthur’s faux-innocent voice only made her angrier with him.

            “Goodbye,” she said.

            “Wait, Henry says to text a few pictures of the garden—”

            But Jemma didn’t pause to hear more. Ending the call with a rather violent movement, she flattened the phone on the counter and sighed. So much for sneaking away to the teashop for a glimpse of Fitz whenever her family made it into Crieff. Now her brothers would be watching every movement she made, just waiting to comment, or worse—follow her around and meet Fitz. As if it weren’t nerve-wracking enough trying to get to know someone better without such complications as _older brothers_. And worse—her _parents_. God. Jemma groaned again, not wanting to imagine what would happen if her mother found out.

            Perhaps once everyone got to the cottage and the wedding preparation commenced, they would forget about Fitz. After all, there was still a lot to be done. Jemma and Daisy had to be fitted for their bridesmaid dresses, and the floral arrangements had to be finalized, the catering confirmed. Eva, Henry’s fiancée, and her family were staying at a fancy hotel in Crieff, and though they wouldn’t be up until right before the wedding, there was the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner to be gotten through once they were here. Besides, when this cottage got full of her family and their close friends, there would be so much chaos around her that Jemma should be able to slip past fairly undetected. She hoped.

            In addition to her parents, her brothers, and Daisy, they were expecting Daisy’s adoptive parents, Phil Coulson and Melinda May, closer to the wedding date, plus their family friend and Phil’s employee, Antoine Triplett. Jemma and Daisy would probably have to share a room, since the cottage only had five rather cramped bedrooms. Spacious for one, but it would soon be crowded with people.

            Feeling better than she had a few minutes earlier at the prospect of everyone’s arrival, Jemma went out into the back garden and dutifully took some photos for Henry. She was surprised by the garden’s beauty, even in the depth of winter: it had gotten just cold enough the night before to leave a delicate frost on the grass, and a brook babbled by at the back of the garden, its shores sheathed in thin ice. Large hedges around the inside of the stone wall gave the whole place a secluded feel—as if this cottage needed any help with that, she thought, but it was pretty all the same. In the summer, she imagined, this place must be spread over with all types of flowers and blooming trees. Ivy climbed up the cottage walls, its branches bare and black at this time of year. A path of flat stones led directly away from the house to the brook, and despite the chill in the air, Jemma’s feet carried her along it, the better to look at the gorse-covered hills in the distance.

            Once she reached the brook, Jemma allowed herself a few minutes of daydreaming to imagine what it would be like to own this place, like Fitz and his mother did. It would feel isolated, yes, but to be surrounded by such wild beauty—to have a cozy, comfortable place to settle down in when the storms raged, and with someone you—you loved—

            Daydreaming over, she told herself firmly. She snapped a few more photos of the horizon, watched her phone until they sent, and then hurried back inside to get warm again.

 

* * *

 

            The problem with trying to run into someone and make it look like an accident was that you actually had to go outside sometimes. Fitz glanced at the clock on the teashop wall, his foot tapping impatiently behind the counter.

            “Still two-fifteen, Turbo,” said Mack from the shop kitchen, where he knelt repairing a pipe beneath the sink.

            Fitz turned around to face the mechanic, handyman, and closest person to a friend he had in Scotland, or, well, anywhere. “Thanks,” he said, his tone sarcastic.

            “Well?” asked Mack, strain in his voice as he twisted something with a wrench. “Where’s the fire?”

            “Sorry?”

            “What’s the rush?” Mack clarified, sitting back with his hands on his knees.

            “Ah. No rush. Just . . . you know . . .” Fitz said the first thing that came to mind. “Need to pick up some stuff. For my latest project.”

            Mack’s face cleared as he stood up, tossing his wrench into his workbox. “For the Golden Retrievers? What do you need? Maybe I have something here—” he tapped the workbox with the toe of his size 14 boot “—or at the shop.”

            “No, it’s—a special part. I think it’s ready for pickup at the post office.”

            Mack twisted the taps at the sink, making sure each one worked in turn before he shut the cabinet doors below. “Well, I’m all set here. Want to walk down together? We could grab a bite afterward if you’re free. I’ll buy.”

            “I’m not sure if I should leave—”

            “You go ahead, Leo,” said Catriona, returning to the counter with the worst possible timing. Fitz flinched. “I’ll be fine here. How’s it coming, dear?” she called to Mack, who came forward from the kitchen to meet them, workbox in hand.

            Catriona was one of the special people in the world who could call Fitz “Leo” and Mack “dear” with neither of them batting an eye. “Just like new, Mrs. Fitz,” Mack said, smiling down at her from about two feet above her head. “Although your son could probably have fixed that with his eyes closed.”

            “Well, I like to have the word of a licensed expert,” said Catriona.

            “Thanks for the vote of confidence, mum.”

            She ignored Fitz. “What do I owe you?” she asked Mack, but he shook his head.

            “Nothing. For this shop, I work for free. Just don’t let the word get out.”

            “Well, that’s very nice of you, Mack, dear. But you should let my son pay for lunch, all right?”

            “Wha—”

            “See you for supper?” she asked Fitz, and he shut his mouth and shrugged, realizing when he was beaten. Now he had no choice but to leave the shop with Mack and hope he came up with a valid excuse before they reached the post office.

            As the shop bell faded behind them and they turned to head up the street, he didn’t end up needing one. “You know the post office is closed on Saturday, right?” said Mack, a note of humor in his voice. “Man, we have to work on your subterfuge.”

            “Damn,” said Fitz under his breath, and then, “You don’t think my mum heard that part, do you?”

            Mack frowned. “Not sure. Why?”

            “You know how she can be about girls,” Fitz said without thinking, then mentally cursed again as Mack’s eyebrows rose toward his nonexistent hairline.

            The mechanic stopped walking, forcing Fitz to do the same by holding a muscled arm across his chest. “Whoa. Hold up. This is about a _girl_?”

            “You don’t have to announce it to the whole town,” Fitz muttered, glancing furtively up and down the road. Fortunately, the closest people were a couple of housewives across the way, and they were busy window-shopping. No sign of Jemma. For the second time that day, Fitz felt oddly disappointed when he should have been relieved.

            “—don’t believe it.” Mack was shaking his head, a dazed grin on his face. “My man Fitz, all grown up and going on dates. So who’s the lucky lady?”

            Fitz shoved Mack’s arm aside—no small feat, considering their difference in, well, weight-lifting regimes—and began walking more briskly than before. “I don’t see why it’s so hard to believe,” he said, continuing to keep his voice low as if Jemma would pop out of the nearest shop at any moment.

            “You’ve never once talked about a girl in the entire time I’ve known you,” Mack pointed out, and, irritatingly enough, Fitz could not argue with that. “So, come on. Who is she? Why all the sneaking around?”

            Fitz opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again and froze in complete shock. Just ahead, standing beside the bus stop at James Square, was Jemma herself, currently in the act of embracing someone who’d stepped off the bus. Surrounding her were three decently attractive guys, Fitz could not help but notice, and then his brain shut down as she pulled out of the hug and made to turn in his direction.

            He whirled and began walking back toward the teashop so quickly that Mack took a minute to notice. Jogging to catch up, he tugged Fitz to a stop and said, “What the hell, Turbo?”

            Fitz shook him off. “Keep walking,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Act normal.”

            Mack fell into step beside him, but didn’t bother to lower his voice. “What’s up? Is she around or something?”

            Fitz abandoned hope of getting back to the teashop before Mack drew attention in their direction. (Logic, having long since flown his mind, could not remind him that Jemma was half a block away across moving traffic and therefore had no way of overhearing their conversation.) “In here,” he said, and turned into the first shop they passed, which happened to be a liquor store. Fitz stopped at a display of whisky right in front of the window so he could make sure Jemma hadn’t noticed them. He only let out his breath when he saw her talking and laughing with the person who had just gotten off the bus, a pretty young woman with a heavy fringe and long, dark brown curls.

            “Is that her?” Mack asked from beside him, and even through his haze of panic, Fitz heard admiration and even surprise in his friend’s voice. “Not what I expected, but she’s cute. How’d you two meet?”

            “Her family’s renting the cottage for a wedding.”

            “Oh, no. Fitz . . .” Mack sounded abruptly disapproving, shaking his head. “I guess that explains the subterfuge. _Attempted_ subterfuge. But really, man, I thought you were better than that.”

            “Not _her_ wedding!” said Fitz in a harsh whisper, turning back to the window. Jemma’s group was walking up the road, toward the liquor store, but they were still on the other side of traffic, conversing amongst themselves. Her friend from the bus was talking rapidly about something, while the trio of men wore varying degrees of amusement on their faces. “It’s for her brother. I’m guessing he’s one of those blokes.” His voice turned thoughtful. “I’m not sure about the girl with the fringe. Probably a friend.”

            “Wait, what?” Mack glanced out the window again. “Ooh,” he said, his voice full of sudden understanding. “We’re talking about the small, pale one with the cardigan?”

            “Of course. Who else?”

            “Right. Who else.” Mack nodded, his face full of amusement, and fell silent, watching the group inch closer to them across the way. Then, “I don’t get it. If she’s available, and you like her . . . why are we hiding?”

            “I don’t want her to think—oh, bloody hell!” Fitz took a step toward the door, but it was too late. Jemma’s group had decided to cross the road at a break in traffic, and to his complete mortification, they were headed straight for the liquor store. Straight for him.

 

* * *

 

            “—I swear, I only told Arthur, so you should blame _him_ ,” Daisy insisted.

            “She sent it in the group text!” Arthur put in from behind them.

            Daisy glared at him over her shoulder, then turned to Jemma and gave her an innocent smile. “I didn’t mean to, I swear—it just happened to be the first conversation on my phone!”

            Jemma groaned. “Please tell me it was only those three in that text.” She waved over her shoulder at her brothers and Dev.

            Daisy’s smile wavered and disappeared. “Well, yeah, those three—and Trip—”

            “What?” Jemma nearly stumbled and had to stop walking to right herself. “Trip, too? So that’s basically everyone in the cottage, except Mum and Dad. Daisy . . .”

            Henry, the oldest and tallest Simmons sibling, intervened by stepping between the two girls and throwing his arms around their shoulders, propelling them forward. “Look, Jem,” he said, in the voice he used when he was bestowing his best advice upon his little sister, “If you like this ‘Fitz,’ what’s the problem? It’s a wonderful thing to find someone special. I for one would like nothing better than to see you happy, like me and—”

            “All right, save it for the wedding,” Arthur interrupted, and Henry shut his mouth with a frown. “Should we pop across to that liquor store while we’re in town? You know mum and dad won’t bring anything.”

            “Yeah, except scotch,” Jemma joked, glad of the change of subject at last. Scotch was all their father drank anymore, and only the best labels at that.

            “Well, you might as well get used to that, right Jem? Since you’ll be settling down in _Scotland_ and all—”

            Jemma broke apart from Henry to roll her eyes at her other brother. “Really, that was a stretch, even for you.” Arthur gave her a serene smile and struck out across the road towards the shop. Everyone else followed suit—Daisy slinking off rather guiltily—leaving Dev and Jemma to catch up.

            Dev put his arm over her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Trust me, Jemma,” he said, his eyes rueful as they followed Arthur’s path to the shop. “Relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

            Jemma glanced up at him, grateful. From the answering expression on his face, she knew he was only joking to make her feel better, and she was glad, because Arthur was a whole lot better with Dev to round him out.

 

* * *

 

            Seeing Jemma halfway across the road, Fitz turned 180 degrees and power-walked to the back of the shop. Mack followed, his longer stride making it easy to keep pace. Fitz took shelter behind a display of cheap sherry, pretending to be peering at the bottles when really he was squinting between them to watch the front of the shop.

            “I’ve never seen you like this,” said Mack, his voice thoughtful. “It would be funny if it weren’t such a trainwreck.”

            But Fitz couldn’t respond right away because he was too busy analyzing the image of Jemma crossing the road: first he saw her smile, full of gratitude and affection; and then he saw its recipient, a tall, gangly bloke with a pea coat and dark curls, like an Indian Benedict Cumberbatch. She had a boyfriend. Of _course_ she had a boyfriend. How could someone as beautiful and smart as she was _not_ have a boyfriend? And she had probably been too nice to mention him the night before. He heard his mother’s words from that morning, describing Jemma as “maybe a bit _too_ polite.” He bit back a groan. How long had Jemma sat there with her empty mug of tea, just waiting for him to leave? “God, I’m such an idiot,” he said out loud.

            “Yeah, you are,” said Mack, and when Fitz gave him a baffled and slightly hurt look, he added, gesturing, “Just walk over there and ask her out!”

            Jemma’s group dispersed throughout the shop, leaving her alone by the whisky display where Fitz had been hiding earlier. She was inspecting it closely, her eyes intent, a small smile lingering on her lips. Then, rotating on her heels, she faced the back of the shop, and Fitz ducked lower behind the sherry.

            He took his eyes off her to glance at Mack. “Just let me know if anyone comes in this direction.”

            Mack eyed the bottles of sherry in distaste. “Don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

            Unfortunately for Fitz, he was wrong, because a second later, Jemma herself appeared at the end of their shelf. Her eyes locked immediately on Fitz as if magnetized to him. Before he could speak, she paled, took half a step backward, and then whipped around and left so fast she almost knocked some wine from the shelves behind her. Neither Fitz nor Mack had moved in the seconds between her arrival and departure.

            Though the shop was full of quiet chatter from Jemma’s group, Fitz heard none of it, because his brain was full of the sudden, dull roar of disbelief and embarrassment. He felt Mack’s eyes burning into him—or maybe that was just the flush creeping up his neck.

            After a few long seconds, his friend said, “On second thought, maybe we should get some of this,” pointing at the sherry. Seeing the expression on Fitz’s face, he dropped his hand and muttered, “Scratch that. We’re going to need something stronger.”

            They waited until Jemma and her friends had left the shop—well, Mack waited; Fitz stood staring as if hypnotized at the place where Jemma had been standing—and then Mack steered him back to the front. One purchase and two blocks later, Fitz finally processed some of what his friend was saying.

            “—back to the garage, and then I want a full explanation. Starting from when we left your mom’s place because, honestly, I’m still confused.”

            Fitz shook his head, trying to think of an excuse to leave, but his brain was slow to function and therefore provided nothing. Against his better wishes, his feet carried him, zombie-like, to Mack’s garage.

 

* * *

 

            Crammed in the back of Henry’s car between Dev and Daisy, Jemma folded her hands in her lap to occupy her nervous fingers. She wanted to reach for her phone so badly, but she knew that, in such close quarters, any text she started to send would be readable to the friends on either side of her. Yes, she had already programmed Fitz’s mobile number into her phone, so even if they couldn’t read the finer print, they’d see his name in bold at the top of the conversation, plus an embarrassing little beaker emoji. She should really go back in and delete that.

            At the moment, though, she had bigger problems. Why did she have to freeze up like that? Knowing her brothers were within shouting distance and far too observant for her liking, she hadn’t wanted to bring attention to Fitz. In her panic, she’d just turned around and retreated as quickly as possible, despite the vertigo-rush of excitement she felt upon seeing him. But now what must he think? She had a fleeting memory of seeing a flush creep up his neck, his face a mask of surprise, and she squeezed her eyes shut to blot the image out.

            “Are you all right, Jemma?”

            “Oh, yeah, fine,” she told the worried Daisy, trying for nonchalance and landing somewhere more weak and breathy, but it would have to do. “Just, you know, carsick.”

            “You get carsick?” said Daisy, frowning. Her voice carried up to Arthur on the front passenger side.

            “Sorry, Jem, you should’ve said so!” he shouted back over Henry’s music. “I only called shotgun out of tradition.”

            “It’s no problem,” she said, and then was glad of an excuse to keep her mouth shut for the duration of the journey back to the cottage. By the time they arrived and unloaded, the sun was sinking below the trees, the shadows painting everything in purples, blues, and grays. Jemma saw her breath in the air on her way indoors. The picturesque view would normally have been calming, but, tense with guilt and apprehension, Jemma hardly noticed more than the cold as she followed her brothers inside.

            “I’m just going to pop upstairs and plug in my phone,” she told them as they unpacked their purchases in the kitchen and speculated about her parents’ arrival. Daisy gave her a look, but the others were preoccupied with their activities, so Jemma was able to sneak off with relative ease to the room that she and Daisy had claimed as their own.

            As soon as she was alone, she crossed to the window and began to text Fitz in the dim twilight of the bedroom. _I’m so sorry,_ she typed. _I didn’t want my brothers to see you_. She re-read it, her thumb hovering over “Send,” and thought, well, that’s just rude. Deleting it, she tried again. _Sorry about earlier_. There, that was a bit more casual. _My brothers were with me, and you know how brothers can be_. But what if he didn’t have any siblings? He hadn’t mentioned any the night before, and Catriona had only said “my son” when she spoke to Jemma in the teashop. Jemma deleted everything but _Sorry about earlier_ and proceeded to stare at her phone in a trance for the next ten minutes.

            “Writing a novel there?”

            Jemma jumped. It was a Daisy, wearing a teasing grin, but her eyes were soft and understanding. Knowing she was caught, Jemma sighed, collapsing down onto the window seat in defeat. “I need help,” she admitted.

            “That’s for sure.” Daisy came over to sit on the end of the bed, still grinning, but her smile faded when Jemma merely blinked at her. “Oh, you got it bad, girl . . .”

            Jemma rolled her eyes, pulling up her legs to encircle her knees with her arms. She turned her face to look out the window, hoping Daisy couldn’t see the blush that she knew was beginning to spread. “I’m being stupid. It was only one conversation. I barely know him . . .”

            It was Daisy’s turn to sigh as Jemma’s words drifted towards silence. “Look, I’m sorry I let the word get out. I _really_ need to work on restraint.” When Jemma didn’t respond, she said hesitantly, “Maybe I can make it up to you?”

            Jemma glanced over in time to see Daisy nod her head in the direction of the phone. Feeling like her need for help outweighed the risk of embarrassment at that juncture, Jemma turned the still-bright screen so Daisy could read it.

            Daisy frowned as her eyes flicked over Jemma’s half-typed response. “What happened earlier?” she asked. “Also, it’s my duty as a friend to point out that you are the cutest nerd in the Northern Hemisphere.”

            No chance she missed the emoji, then. Damn. Jemma’s blush deepened, but she said, “He was there. At the liquor store. But I didn’t talk to him, because I was afraid . . . well, you know.”

            “Wait, as in, he was there _thirty minutes ago?_ ” Daisy’s voice rose at the end, and Jemma shot a warning glance at the door. The cottage was small, and sound carried. But the laughter and conversation from downstairs continued unbroken. Daisy lowered her voice and said, “Did he see you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

            Jemma responded with a long look, and Daisy raised both her hands in defense. “Okay, okay, I get it. Brothers from hell within hearing range. But they might not have noticed—”

            “Have you _met_ Arthur?” Jemma sighed. “I just didn’t want Fitz to be put under that kind of scrutiny, okay? We’ve only hung out once—if you can call it that—a cup of tea and a lift, that’s all. I didn’t want to, you know, scare him away or something.”

            “Did I mention that I’m really sorry?”

            At last, Daisy’s apologetic tone coaxed a smile from Jemma. She dropped her legs and shifted slightly so that Daisy could occupy the other half of the window seat. Leaning her head against the cold glass at her back, Jemma handed over her mobile. “Here. Do your worst.”

            “My worst?” Daisy was back to sounding mischievous, almost gleeful, and Jemma immediately regretted putting such power into her friend’s hands. “But I just got out of the doghouse!”

            Jemma craned her neck to read what Daisy was already typing. She left the _Sorry about earlier_ in place, adding, _My brothers are idiots and I didn’t want to put you through meeting them quite yet. Want to get together tomorrow and talk dirty?_

            Jemma gasped and dove for the phone. Daisy held it out to her left, just beyond reach, laughing. “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m joking,” she said, pushing Jemma off with her right arm as she deleted “dirty” and added “science” instead.

            Seeing the change, Jemma sat down, no longer struggling for the phone, but she chewed her lip with worry. “You—you don’t think it’s too desperate?”

            Daisy raised one eyebrow, her expression clearly saying “You’re crazy,” and then, with a deliberate motion, hit “Send.” Jemma watched until “Delivered 4:16 PM” appeared and it was too late to go back.

            They sat side by side in silence for a bit, the room getting darker and darker as the last of the day’s light slipped away. “You must really like this guy, huh?” Daisy asked, placing the phone down on the window seat between them and shifting a bit so she could look Jemma in the eye.

            Jemma couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I hardly know him,” she felt obliged to say despite her grin.

            “What’s he like?”

            “He’s a genius.” Jemma fiddled with the phone as she spoke, feeling torn between shyness and a sudden, fierce pleasure in their topic of conversation. “We talked about science for hours. He even listens to my favorite podcasts!” She laughed under her breath, but Daisy was looking at her with eyebrows raised, her expression unreadable. Jemma plowed on. “You’ll never believe it,” she said. “When we first met, he was wearing my same _exact_ Doctor Who sweater! You know the limited edition one?”

            Daisy nodded. “Okay, that settles it. Marry him.”

            Jemma blushed so hot she thought the window might fog up, but she was saved from having to answer by a light blinking across her phone screen. She stared as if she’d forgotten how it worked until Daisy plucked it up from the seat and punched in Jemma’s passcode.

            “Hey!” said Jemma, scandalized.

            “Please.” Daisy gave her a sideways look as she pulled up the new text. “1643? Isaac Newton’s birth year? Jemma, you sweet summer child . . .” But her voice trailed off as they both bent their heads to read Fitz’s text.

_No worries. Tomorrow sounds great. I could use your input. I happen to know a good teashop . . . how about 2:30?_

 

* * *

 

            Fitz watched as Mack filled three glass tumblers with another finger of whisky each. The garage was closed, it had just gone four o’clock, and despite the tingling warmth on his tongue, he was nowhere near drunk enough to forget how stupid he felt.

            “You know, mate, this girl sounds a lot like my ex-wife,” said Lance Hunter, Mack’s one employee (though what he actually did around the garage, Fitz wasn’t sure). “Always saying one thing and meaning another . . .”

            Fitz frowned at him, then shook his head. “That’s not Jemma.” But who was he, really, to say that like he knew her? He took another sip of whisky.

            “Look, all I’m saying is you dodged a bullet there.”

            Mack ignored this, saying to Fitz, “How do you know that guy was her boyfriend? He could be anyone.”

            Fitz shrugged, wishing he weren’t so— _Scottish_ —so the alcohol would affect him for a change. “They looked pretty close to me.”

            “Oh, well, in that case . . .” said Mack, and Fitz had to glance sharply at his friend’s face before he realized that Mack was being sarcastic. Fitz opened his mouth to respond, but just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

            He frowned, reaching down to check just in case it was later than he thought and his mum was wondering where he’d gone for a second night running. A sprawl of numbers lit up his screen—an incoming text from an unsaved number that he recognized as Jemma’s from her call the night before. He almost dropped the phone in his whisky.

            “What is it?” asked Mack. Hunter paused, his glass halfway to his mouth.

            “It’s a text,” said Fitz. “From—from Jemma.”

            Hunter set his glass down and leaned forward. When Fitz didn’t move, he said, “Well, go on!”

            The three of them leaned over the table as Fitz unlocked his phone and the text popped up. “‘Sorry about earlier,’” read Hunter out loud. “‘My brothers are idiots and I didn’t want to put you through meeting them quite yet.’ Fair enough. ‘Want to get together tomorrow and talk science?’” He looked up with one eyebrow raised. “Talk science?” he repeated. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

            Fitz yanked the phone roughly from Hunter’s hands and read the text again in his head. He steadied his breathing to the point that he could say with sufficient calmness, “Jemma’s a biochemist. I told her about my latest project.” He looked up at Mack. “What should I say?”

            Mack shrugged. “Ask her about her boyfriend.”

            Fitz narrowed his eyes at his friend, who downed the last of his drink. He was clearly done with the conversation. Hunter, on the other hand, leaned closer and said, “Ask her to dinner instead. She’s obviously into you, mate—boyfriend or not.”

            “You’re both useless,” muttered Fitz. He bounced his leg under the table, scanning the text a third time. Her tone was light, but professional—just the sort of way you might address a potential colleague. A work friend. The whisky seemed to have gathered in a hollow pit in his stomach as he continued this thought. So maybe that’s all she wanted to be—lab partners. She was still a brilliant woman and an accomplished biochemist. He hadn’t been lying the night before when he said he could use her help. And if it was a science partner she wanted, that’s who he could be, he told himself. Distant. Academic, removed. They could meet up somewhere neutral—his mother’s teashop—so Jemma would know he wasn’t trying anything. He could take a hint. He composed his reply, read it over three or four times for typos, and hit “Send” before he could change his mind.

* * *

 

 

           


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday everybody! Thanks to everyone who left reviews and/or kudos for the last chapter - you can't imagine my grins as I read what you said. I really hope you enjoy this next segment! :)

           

* * *

 

           The smell of eggs, bacon, and fresh bread woke Jemma early on Sunday morning. From the other side of the bed, she could hear Daisy’s heavy breathing, indicating that her friend was still asleep. A glance at the clock revealed that she probably would be for a while—it was only 7:30, and Daisy was not known for being an early riser.

            Getting out of bed as quietly as she could, Jemma made her way downstairs, making a brief stop at the toilet at the end of their hallway. By the time she was headed toward the cottage kitchen, she could feel her stomach growling at the delicious smells drifting her way. She was about to turn around the corner when she heard her own name and froze.

            “—Jemma say anything more about him?”

            It was her mother’s voice, low and murmuring and difficult to make out. Jemma practically stopped breathing so she could hear the response.

            “You know how she is, Mum,” said Arthur, his words a little louder and more discernible. “About as open as a locked door.”

            Jemma fought back the urge to protest. It was only what she deserved for eavesdropping, she knew that—but she couldn’t resist leaning a little bit closer, waiting to hear what else they said.

            Her mother sighed. “I worry about her, up here all alone. She’s never had many friends . . .”

            “Kind of hard to be best mates with people ten years older than you are,” Arthur pointed out, and Jemma felt a surge of gratitude toward him. After all, he wasn’t wrong. Nor, Jemma was forced to admit, was her mother. But at least Arthur was willing to shift some of the blame off Jemma’s shoulders.

            The clinks of kitchenware, some cutlery, and then—“I suppose that’s true.” Her mum’s voice again. “But what if this bloke isn’t serious? She’s very . . .”

 “Inexperienced,” Arthur supplied, just as their mother said, “Naïve.” A brief pause, and then she continued, “Exactly. He might try to take advantage.”

            Arthur started to say something, but Jemma felt a hot burst of anger in her stomach and turned away from the kitchen. Glad now that she had pulled on a sweater and slippers, she went straight out through the veranda doors to the back garden, sucking the icy air in quick bursts until her temper cooled. Was nothing sacred anymore in her family? Her mother was always like that—always treating Jemma like a child, always fussing over her and never satisfied with the result. She crossed her arms against the cold as she surveyed the beauty of the backyard, stark and frozen-over from the plunging overnight temperatures. It looked somewhat desolate out there that morning, especially considering the heavy-hanging clouds.

            “Jem? Is that you?”

            Jemma jumped, hurrying to paste on a smile. She turned to find Henry walking over from the corner of the garden.

            “You should get your coat,” he said, frowning at her. “It’s below freezing, you know. Supposed to snow later.”

            She shrugged, glad that Henry was not as observant as Arthur would be in the situation. He didn’t seem to pick up on her irritation at all. Instead, he came over and stood beside her, his eyes combing the cottage garden.

            “Pretty, isn’t it?” she said, though a moment ago she’d been thinking it was desolate. Wild and winter-harsh, yes, but that had its own kind of beauty.

            “Yeah,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s perfect. Eva’s going to love it.”

            Jemma turned to him then, catching him staring out at the choppy mountains along the horizon. “Why are you getting married here, Henry?” she asked. She’d been wondering that since he first announced it, but she hadn’t found the right moment to ask.

            He finally tore his gaze form the garden to look at her, his brow furrowing. “Eva wanted to,” he said.

            “Just like that? Scotland? I mean . . . why?”

            He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, does it? She said a tiny cottage near the Highlands with a beautiful back garden at Christmastime. Said it was her dream.” He smiled, a soft, tender smile that made the tightly-wound Henry almost unrecognizable to his younger sister. “And when you love someone, you give them their dreams.”

            It was Jemma’s turn to look out at the garden, her eyes following the frost-crusted grass, the stark branches of a hawthorn tree. Anything but look at that expression on her brother’s face, which at the moment was just a little bit _too_ real for her senses. But she was happy for him, and happy for Eva, to have found each other. She wanted to be able to smile like that one day.

            “Come on,” said Henry suddenly, tugging her by the arm. “Let’s get breakfast. It’s _freezing_ in Scotland in December.”

 

* * *

 

            “Mum, have you seen my button-up shirt? The blue one?” Fitz called, shifting through a pile of clean clothes in the little closet where they did their laundry.

            “No, dear,” came his mum’s voice from their kitchen. “Why do you ask?”

            Okay, so it was a bit out of character for him to be dressing up on a Sunday. As a matter of fact, it was out of character for him to be _awake_ at that hour, much less wearing clothes in which he could show his face in public. But he didn’t want his mother to suspect anything, so he called back, “I’m just having a meeting later. A—science meeting. Work. Thing.” Sure, that didn’t sound suspicious at all.

            Abandoning the laundry, he went back into his room and surveyed the piles of clothes on the floor beside his bed. Maybe his mother had a point. It would be weird if he dressed up for this—what if Jemma noticed? Then she would think that _he_ thought it was a date. He rubbed his forehead. God, this was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even noon yet.

            “What sort of meeting?”

            Fitz jumped. His mother stood in the doorway to his room, leaning against the threshold. She was watching him with an innocent expression, but he thought he detected a gleam of—mischief? Satisfaction?—in her eyes.

            “It’s nothing. Just, you know, exchanging information. Best practices, and stuff. Jemma’s coming over this afternoon.”

            “Oh, is she? Lovely. What time?” Again with the tone of innocence and matching smile.

            Fitz narrowed his eyes. “Two-thirty. And remember, Mum, it’s a meeting between two _professionals_.”

            “Of course.” Catriona pushed off from the doorway and made to turn back down the hall. “Why else would you be dressing up?”

            Fitz glared at her back as she left.

 

* * *

 

            If Mrs. Amelia Simmons noticed that her daughter was a bit short with her during breakfast, either she dismissed it as Jemma’s normal temperament, or she didn’t let on. She just continued asking innocent-yet-subtly-pestering questions until the tea was gone.

            “And you were able to check in here all right? No trouble with the contract?”

            “No trouble, Mum.” Jemma rolled her eyes at Arthur—her mother was behind them, refilling the kettle, so she couldn’t see—but Arthur only raised his eyebrows at her suggestively. Jemma glared.

            “Jemma met a guy, Mum,” said Henry from further down the table. Arthur choked on his toast and dissolved into coughs that sounded oddly similar to suppressed laughter.

            “Henry!”

            “Did she, now?” Jemma’s mother finished refilling the kettle and came back to her seat next to Arthur. “And what’s he like?”

  
            “Science-y bloke, right Jem?” Henry was smothering his toast with marmalade and therefore missed his sister’s venomous expression. “Seems like a nice guy. His mum owns the cottage.”

            “Is that right?” said Mrs. Simmons, and Jemma felt her mother’s gaze transfer itself to her. She stopped glaring at Henry, but focused instead on the remaining food on her plate so that she wouldn’t have to meet her mother’s eye. She hated the sound of faux-innocence in her mother’s voice. After all, they’d been discussing this just a few minutes ago. This, and Jemma’s shortcomings.

            “He gave me a lift to the cottage,” Jemma said, still addressing her eggs. “We just had a chat about our current projects, that’s all.” Then, not wanting to sell Fitz short, she added, “He’s really nice.”

            “Hmm,” was all her mother said. Jemma risked a glance at her. Amelia opened her mouth to say more, but right at that moment, Mr. Simmons entered the room, carrying a newspaper.

            “Morning, all,” he said, crossing to the stove and beginning to fill a breakfast plate, the newspaper clutched under his arm.

            “Morning, Dad,” chorused the boys and Jemma. From the corner of her eyes, Jemma saw her mother shut her mouth again, looking thoughtful.

            Thank goodness for her father’s timing.

            Mr. Alistair Simmons was primarily responsible for the smallish height, high forehead, and honey-brown hair that Arthur and Jemma had in common. Like Arthur, he smiled easily, and like his daughter, he had a knack for science. He ran a consultation laboratory called XChemics—or, as Arthur called it, ChemicsX, because it sounded like a dirty word that way. “And that’s the only ‘X’ most of the employees are getting anyway—” This was usually when Mrs. Simmons cut him off.

            Once his plate was full, Alistair came over to the table and took the last remaining place beside Jemma. “How did everybody sleep?”

            They all replied with various synonyms for “fine.” Alistair started on his breakfast, saying around a mouthful, “So what’s on the schedule for today?”

            “Mum and I are going into Crieff to meet the caterers and florist,” said Henry, buttering another piece of toast.

            “Excellent,” said Alistair drily. “I shall ring my credit card company and warn them.”

            The kettle began to whistle. Jemma jumped up to get it before her mother could move. She realized that pretty soon, the conversation would make its way around to her, and she’d have to come up with a good excuse to go to Crieff on her own—without telling them why.

            She’d had enough scrutiny for one morning.

            “Do you have to work, Dad?” asked Arthur as Jemma opened the kettle to cut its shrill sound. Steam rose as she filled a new pot of tea.

            “Sadly, yes. I have a few lab reports to approve before tomorrow. One of them’s for Phil, so—” Alistair chuckled “—I can’t exactly beg off.”

            “Right,” said Arthur. “Too bad. When do Phil and Melinda arrive again?”

            “Friday week. They’re only staying two nights. But Trip’ll be here next weekend.”

            “Well, it’s nice of them to make it at all, if you ask me,” said Henry, standing to begin clearing the table. Jemma, a new plan in mind, brought the tea over and filled her father’s mug.

            “Thanks, Jem,” he said, giving her a smile. “And what are you up to today?”

            “I think Daisy and I are going into town this afternoon,” she said, keeping her voice even. “We need to buy some shoes for the wedding.”

            “Oh, right, shoes,” said Arthur, but Jemma kicked him under the table and he fell silent.

            “But you’ll be at the stag tonight, won’t you?” asked Henry suddenly from the kitchen sink.

            Jemma turned in her seat to face him. “ _Your_ stag party?”

            “No, the prime minister’s,” said Henry irritably. “Yes, mine! Come on, I sent you the email ages ago—”

            “I thought you just included me by accident. Why would you want your sister at your stag party?”

            “It’s not going to be wild and crazy,” said Henry, as if Jemma should have assumed this, and, knowing Henry, perhaps she should’ve. “We’re just going out to supper at the pub in Crieff, and then we’ll have a few rounds and wear matching t-shirts.” He raised his eyebrows. “You’re basically my second brother. You _have_ to come.”

            “I’m flattered,” she joked, but then she sighed and relented. “I suppose we could meet you after—after shopping.” It would actually be nice to have an excuse to leave the teashop, just in case Fitz was terribly bored with her company. “As long as you’re all right with Daisy coming, too?”

            Henry waved her question away. “Of course. Daisy is the one who planned it in the first place.”

            Alistair chuckled. “Of course she was.”

 

* * *

 

            Fitz paused in preparing his materials for the meeting to check the text that had appeared on his phone. Before he saw the number, he felt a pulse of worry in his chest—of course she was cancelling. She probably had millions of better things to do—but it was from Hunter.

            _Me and Mack will be at the Caledonian starting at 4. USE ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY._

“Mack and I,” Fitz muttered, but he was secretly glad to have an out, just in case the Golden Retrievers bored Jemma half to death. Although an hour and a half was still a long time to be meeting.

            Or was it? They’d talked for much longer than that the first evening they met, and it’d felt like five minutes. For the hundredth time that morning, Fitz closed his eyes and saw Jemma smiling up at the handsome stranger from the day before. Now that he knew she had _him_ to run off to, he’d be reminded to keep his sentences short.

            Short, academic, and removed. He could do that.

            He picked up the last of his things and went downstairs to the shop.

 

* * *

 

            “Are you sure this looks all right?” Jemma asked Daisy as they descended from the bus.

            “How about I just record myself saying ‘Yes, I’m sure’ and press play every time you ask me that? I’d like to save my voice for tonight. There’s going to be karaoke.”

            “Ha, ha,” Jemma said, but when she didn’t immediately follow Daisy from the bus stop, her friend turned around and looked her up and down with a critical eye. After much deliberation, Jemma had chosen to wear dark jeans and her favorite blue cashmere cardigan over a white, button-down shirt. Simple, casual, but professional. Something she could wear in the lab. She covered it all with her plain, black coat, but her cheeks were still cold, because she’d had to go scarfless. For some reason, she hadn’t been able to find her red scarf that morning, and she’d abandoned the search as two o’clock neared because she hadn’t wanted to be late.

            “Sufficiently nerdy,” pronounced Daisy when her inspection was complete, “with a hint of slutty potential. It’s perfect.”

            “A hint of—what? Where?” demanded Jemma as they began to walk.

            Daisy smirked. “Skinny jeans. Unless this guy’s blind, he’s going to like what he sees.”

            Suddenly, Jemma’s cheeks were no longer cold. “We’re just meeting up to talk about science.”

            “There are so many innuendos, I don’t even know where to start,” said Daisy.

            “Then don’t,” Jemma suggested, and Daisy laughed.

            “All right, I’ll save it for the stag party,” she said, holding up her hands in mock-surrender. “Besides, I’d better maintain our cover.” She split off from Jemma to head toward the shoe shop down the road. “Text me when you’re heading to the pub?”

            “Will do,” said Jemma, waving Daisy off with a smile that masked her nervousness—she hoped.

 

* * *

 

            As soon as Jemma entered the teashop, Fitz realized he’d made a huge mistake.

            _Oh God, abort, abort_ , he thought, because his feelings were not _exactly_ what he would define as “professional and removed.” As a slow smile spread across her face because she’d spotted his table, the sensation only got worse.

            “Hello,” she said once she was next to him. He’d jumped out of his chair like an idiot on her approach, so he held out a hand for her to shake.

            “Glad you could make it,” he said, hoping his voice only sounded a pitch too high to his own ears.

            “Of course!” she said, her fingers slightly cold as they curled around his. He removed his hand as quickly as possible and sat down, so she followed suit. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

            Hunter’s text flashed across Fitz’s memory. This was very much an emergency. His eyes flicked to the clock on the teashop wall. Half past two, on the button.

            It was going to be a long hour and a half.

            “Jemma, dear!” His mum approached their table with a pot of tea in hand. “It’s lovely to see you again. How are you liking the cottage?”

            “It’s wonderful,” said Jemma, transferring her heart-stopping smile to Catriona instead. Forget Mack and Hunter. Fitz might have to start making his own excuses. “I really like the garden,” Jemma continued.

            “Ah, that’s very sweet of you,” said Catriona, setting down the teapot. “It’s my hobby, you know. Did most of the work myself.”

            “Really? That’s fantastic. I bet it’s beautiful in summer.”

            “Oh, yes. June is my favorite, with everything blooming. You should come back and see it next year!” It was Fitz’s turn to look at his mother—no smile from him, though—and Catriona quickly added, “If your family wants to take another trip, that is.”

            “I’ll do my best to convince them,” said Jemma, surprising Fitz’s eyes back to her. Luckily, she didn’t notice his stare, because her gaze was lingering on the teapot. She was only being polite, he told himself firmly. Stop acting like an idiot. Focus. _Science_. But his brain had melted to something closely resembling mush.

            “This is our special blend,” said Catriona, following Jemma’s eyes as well. “Black tea with a hint of vanilla. It’s Fitz’s favorite.”

            “Is it?” Jemma glanced up from the teapot and met Fitz’s eyes, grinning. “What’s it called?”

            “Er, Cottage Blend,” he said. “You can probably guess why.”

            Jemma sniffed the steam rising from the pot, and her smile glowed again. “It smells wonderful.”

            “Do you take milk or sugar?” asked Catriona.

            “Just milk, please.”

            “Right. I’ll be right back with a few things, and then I won’t interrupt anymore—I promise.” Catriona grinned at them both, and Fitz sensed that more was coming before she spoke simply by the satisfied expression on her face. “I know you two have a lot to talk about.”

            Fitz felt a flush creeping up his neck and mentally thanked the universe for leaving the table behind him empty. “Right, so, er, where should we start?” he asked.

            Jemma picked up the messenger bag she’d come in with and pulled out a notebook. “Well, I remember you mentioning that you had some questions about the biometrics programming in your Golden Retriever code,” she said, flipping through her pages of notes. “So last night, I put together some suggestions to help you hone in on human specifications—”

            Normally, Fitz would have been riveted on every word of this statement—and some part of his brain was still following along, he couldn’t help it—but the rest of him had gone a bit numb. Forget emergency situations, this was a full-blown bloody catastrophe. He was an idiot for not realizing before that talking science with her would only make her _more_ attractive in his eyes.

            This could not end well.

            “Thank you,” he managed, since she had finished speaking and was watching him with hope in her eyes. “That’s—really nice of you.” She handed the notebook across to him, pointing halfway down the page at a chart she’d designed, and began to say something else, but he cut her off with “Bloody hell, is this all your handwriting?”

            He looked up from the page and caught her blushing. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I write—small.”

            “And about as neat as a typewriter,” he added, flipping back a few pages, though he kept a finger between the pages with the chart as a bookmark. “Hang on, is this—color-coded?”

            Now she was about as red as their checkered tablecloth. “It helps me remember things,” she said. “Once I’ve written them down in a certain color, my brain categorizes them, or something, and then I never forget.”

            Fitz nodded. He had a way of remembering numbers—which was why he never programmed names into his phone. He only had to see the sequence once for it to stick with him. But part of why he’d switched to using a tablet was because half the time, _he_ could barely decode his own notes, much less keep them legible enough to be shared with someone else. “You could practically publish this as it is,” he joked, half-smiling at her.

            That teased an answering smile through her embarrassment, and eventually, she let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, right,” she said. “You haven’t seen Figures 2 through 11. I should really never draw—”

            Just then, Catriona returned to the table, a tray with milk and sugar on one hand and a three-tiered display of cookies, tea sandwiches, and scones in the other. Jemma’s sentence hung in the air as she stared wide-eyed at the display. She glanced up at Catriona and said, “Really, Mrs. Fitz, those looks amazing.”

            “I thought I told you to call me Catriona?” But Fitz’s mum just smiled at Jemma, then over at Fitz, before setting everything down on the table. “Enjoy, dears. And let me know if you like the tea!”

            Jemma nodded, thanking her, and waited until Catriona was gone to pour for herself and Fitz. “Does your mum run this whole place by herself?” Jemma asked, adding some milk to her cup.

            Fitz spooned in a mass of sugar. He was lucky his mum had appeared just then, interrupting their lighthearted banter and reminding him that he was supposed to be distant, like a colleague, nothing more. “Yeah, just her and me,” he said, succinct, and then held the notebook up to wave it at Jemma. “Do you mind if I borrow this for a bit?”

            If a line appeared between Jemma’s brows, it disappeared just as quickly, and she moved past his brusque response with easy manners. “Not at all,” she said. “Feel free. Just don’t judge me too harshly for the drawings.” She smiled uncertainly, and Fitz’s stomach flipped over like a pancake, but he forced himself to keep his expression blank. It was better that way.

            Jemma returned to stirring her tea, dropping her face so he couldn’t read her expression. Was she—disappointed? That didn’t make sense. Maybe she was laughing at him and hiding her face out of decency. But why would she be laughing at _him_? She was the one who’d been joking. Ugh, this was absolute torture. Fitz glanced at the clock again. Quarter to bloody three?

            It had only been fifteen minutes.

            “So, anything else you’ve been working on recently?” he asked, attempting to keep the conversation on track. If they spent fifteen more minutes drinking tea and eating, that should be sufficient to fulfill his agreement to meet, and then he could beg off somehow.

            “Actually, yes,” she said, gesturing at the notebook. He pushed it across the table to her and she flipped through it, stopping at a new page toward the back. “As a matter of fact, I could use your insight.” She handed the notebook back to him and selected a scone.

            Fitz was silent for a good ten minutes as he read. She’d developed some kind of formula for paralysis—dendrotoxin—and she had sketched a few prototypes that were designed for its dispersal. She had been falsely modest to an extent—the drawings had potential—but a few weaknesses jumped out at him immediately.

            He focused on her overall goals first. “Guns?” he asked her, looking up from the page to find her spreading jam on her scone.

            She set down scone and knife. “My father’s done some consulting for—well—various international agencies,” she said. “That’s what gave me the idea. Imagine the loss of life that could be prevented if bullets were engineered to paralyze, not kill.”

            “Smart,” said Fitz, flipping to another page of drawings. Add ethically-minded to her ever-growing list of attractive qualities. “Do you have a buyer in mind?”

            “Well, actually, yes. Have you ever heard of S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

            Fitz barely avoided dropping the notebook to the floor. It rattled his saucer instead, spilling a few drops of tea over the edge. “What? _The_ S.H.I.E.L.D.? As in, Battle of New York, and all that?”

            Jemma nodded, chewing on a bite of scone before she swallowed. How could she look so calm about this? Everyone had heard of S.H.I.E.L.D. since aliens had invaded earth and the world had changed forever—even people living in the middle of nowhere, Scotland. _Especially_ them, if Fitz counted, because ever since he was a teenager pursuing a Ph.D., he’d wanted to get on their payroll.

            In fact, that’d been a huge part of why he took the position at MIT. Even though S.H.I.E.L.D. was technically an international organization, he’d heard their roots were in America, so he’d jumped at the chance to get closer. If he could’ve proven himself in his fellowship—but that didn’t matter now. What was important was the woman sitting across from him, casually sipping her tea as if she hadn’t just name-dropped the biggest-budgeted research department in the world.

            Fitz managed a strangled, “I’ve heard of them,” before Jemma continued.

            “Well, a—close family friend works there,” she said. “He’s coming up here for my brother’s wedding late next week. I was going to pitch it to him then.”  
            Fitz’s mouth fell open. “And he has the buying power?”

            She shrugged, picking a cucumber sandwich off the tray this time. “I’m pretty sure he does.” Misreading Fitz’s shocked expression, she set down her sandwich and said, “Don’t worry. If you help me with the dispersal mechanism, we can split the earnings. I’m not trying to—”

            “Wait, are you serious?”

            She blinked at him, taken aback. “Of course. It’s only fair.”

            Fitz’s pulse was racing. So much for calm, cool, and collected until three o’clock. He didn’t even care about the clock anymore. He didn’t care if the room collapsed around them, for that matter, so long as they were safe and undisturbed. “It’s just—well, to be honest, I’ve always wanted to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

            “You have?” Jemma eyed him with something unreadable on her face.

            “The biggest research budget in the world? Access to—to the most enhanced robotics and nanotechnology?” He tried to swallow, his throat suddenly dry, and then reached for his cup of tea.

            “Well, yeah, I suppose you’re right,” said Jemma, still staring at him across the table. Her brown eyes were wide and soft. Meeting them, he took another fortifying sip of tea for entirely different reasons. “So, you’ll help?” she continued. “We can go fifty-fifty if we get something ready in time. And, of course, provided Coul—my contact says yes.”

            Fitz set his cup down, nodding. “I already have a few ideas,” he began.

 

* * *

 

            Two hours later, Catriona was closing up the shop, cleaning up the last crumbs from the empty tables surrounding Fitz and Jemma, who were bent over Jemma’s notebook, their foreheads almost touching. They practically hadn’t stopped for breath since three o’clock.

            She hated to interrupt them, but since what remained of their tea _must_ be cold and the last sandwich was long gone, she felt it her duty to check in at least one more time before heading upstairs. “Can I get you two anything else?”

            Jemma glanced up in surprise, then focused her eyes past Catriona’s shoulder to the clock on the wall. They widened when she read the time. “Is it really five o’clock?” she asked.

            “Why, yes, dear,” said Catriona, trying her very best to keep what she knew her son would call a smirk from spreading across her face. “What’s the matter?”

            “Oh, it’s just that—I’m supposed to be meeting my brothers. I completely lost track of time!”

            Knowing she would soon be losing the battle with her expression, Catriona said, “Well, hang on just a minute before you go. I want to give you some of the tea—if you liked it?”

            “Oh, it was lovely, Catriona,” said Jemma, “but really, you don’t—”

            “It’s my treat,” Catriona interrupted, hurrying away as her lips started to twitch.

 

* * *

 

            Jemma waited until Catriona had turned away. She could hardly believe two hours had passed in what felt like minutes—but then again, that’s exactly how it had been when she’d spoken with Fitz before. She smiled across at him, packing up everything except her notebook, which they’d already decided he would keep for while. She was surprised to find him frowning down at the tablecloth in response.

            “Everything all right?” she asked him. “Sorry I have to leave—”

            “No, no, it’s fine,” he said, and all of a sudden his voice sounded remote, blank. Had she done something wrong? Maybe because she was leaving so soon?

            “Actually, if you’d like to come with me—” she began tentatively.

            “Er, I’ve got to meet some friends of my own,” he said before she could finish. He, too, was packing up, stacking her notebook with his tablet, avoiding her eyes. Jemma pretended to be adjusting the strap of her bag so that he wouldn’t see her face. “But thanks,” he added, and it sounded like a distant afterthought.

            What had gone wrong? She’d been having the best scientific discussion of her life—he really was a genius, she thought—and all of a sudden, he had transformed. Maybe she’d kept him from meeting his friend? Maybe he’d been trying to shut her up for a while now? Oh, God, if that were true—

            Catriona appeared a second later, a little bundle of loose-leaf tea in her hands. “Here you go, love,” she said, handing it to Jemma.

            “Thank you,” she replied, stuffing the bundle in her coat pocket as she stood up to leave. “It really was delicious. The tea, the sandwiches—all of it.”

            Catriona smiled back, but Jemma noticed a line between her brows that hadn’t been there before. A hidden frown. “You’re welcome anytime.”

            “Thanks,” said Jemma, and she meant it, but if her voice quavered, it’s because she was turning to Fitz now, and she was unsure of the response she would receive. He was standing, too, staring at a point somewhere above Jemma’s head. “And thanks for your help today,” she told him.

            “Of course. Happy to oblige,” he said, his back as stiff as his voice.

            Without waiting for more, Jemma turned and hurried from the shop.

 

* * *

 

            “What in the world was _that_?” asked Catriona, staring down her son with a glare fiercer than the sun’s.

            “Just leave it, Mum, all right?” he replied, carrying the teapot and their empty cups into the shop kitchen. She followed him.

            “I won’t ‘leave it,’ thank you, Leopold Fitz,” she said, as he deposited the dishes in the sink and turned back to fetch the rest. She kept an even pace with him. “That poor girl looked really hurt!”

            “She did?” Fitz froze next to the table, hesitated, then bent lower as he retrieved the empty food tray. _It’s better this way_ , he told himself firmly. _You don’t want to make a fool of yourself. Remember two hours ago when you said you’d be distant? Right, look how long that lasted . . ._

            “Don’t you pretend innocence with me,” said Catriona on their second trip back to the kitchen. She shook her head, leaning against a counter and crossing her arms—the telltale position that meant she was upset. “I don’t get it,” she muttered.

            “Look, she has boyfriend, okay?”

            “Does she, now? Oh, well, naturally that makes her undeserving of common decency—”

            “Mum, it’s not like that,” Fitz said, rolling his eyes heavenward, for it would take nothing less than divine intervention to stop her when she was in one of these moods. “I just didn’t want her to think I was—you know—I was flirting, or anything.”

            “Trust me, no one would suspect you of that.”

            He winced. Okay, so he hadn’t meant to be rude, but no matter what his mother said, he knew it was easier this way—for Jemma _and_ for him. Maybe next time they met, she would be more distant, too, and he wouldn’t find his eyes lingering on her lips, his attention wandering to her hands as she tucked her hair behind her ears—

            His mother sighed, drawing his attention squarely back into the shop kitchen. She was shaking her head. “I wash my hands of it,” she said. “But just remember, Leo, you’re good at a lot of things, not the least of which is rating yourself too poorly.”

            Fitz had nothing to say to that, so he went back out to the shop floor to collect his things and Jemma’s notebook. Once those were safely deposited in his room, he remembered Hunter’s text—in case of emergency—and decided he would go meet them anyway, because after the last fifteen minutes, he could really use a drink.

 

* * *

 

            It wasn’t hard for Jemma to find her group, because as soon as she walked into the Caledonian Bar, they erupted in a chorus of “Oooh” and “Look what the cat dragged in—”

           Jemma shed her coat, grabbing a seat next to Daisy. “You told them.”

           Daisy bit her lip, the picture of innocence, and shrugged. “Sorry?”

           “You’re the worst,” said Jemma, but she didn’t really mean it.

           Daisy must have picked up on her melancholy, because she frowned. Turning her body to block out the rest of the group, she asked, “So, what, it didn’t go well?”

           “It went great!” Jemma said, throwing up her hands. “At least, I thought it did.”

           “Oookaaaay . . . so . . . why the long face?”  

           “When I said I had to leave, he got all—weird. Distant, like he was upset, but I have no idea why.”

            “Well, because you were leaving, maybe?” Daisy teased.

            Jemma shook her head. “No, it was something more than that. He didn’t sound disappointed. He was . . . colder.”

           Daisy frowned, growing serious. “But he was normal the rest of the time?”

            “Yeah. We made great progress—he’s already drawn up a model that I think could work with the dendrotoxin—”

            “Okay, okay, I get it,” said Daisy, holding up a hand to fend off the nerd talk. “That’s great. But why the cold shoulder? Do I need to beat this guy up?”

            “Please don’t,” Jemma said, but the image succeeded in bringing a smile to Jemma’s lips, just as Daisy intended it to do.

            “You know what’s almost as good?” When Jemma shook her head, Daisy grinned. “Dancing and beer.”

            “Ugh, no dancing,” Jemma said, but she felt a bit better when the waitress came around to take her order for supper.

 

* * *

 

            “Uh-oh,” said Mack as soon as the door to the bar swung open, followed by a gust of cold air.

            Hunter checked to see who had walked in, but it was only a petite, brown-haired girl he didn’t recognize. Kind of pretty, but too demure for his taste.

            “We have a slight problem.” Mack was already digging in his pocket for his phone.

            “Wait, you mean—her?” Hunter watched as she took a seat with the rowdy group in the corner. “No offense, but unless you mean a math problem, I think you’ve got the wrong girl.”

            “Very funny,” said Mack, finally retrieving his phone and tapping out a text. “That’s Fitz’s girl.”

            “Hang on—what?” Hunter glanced from Mack to her again, then said, “Actually . . . that makes sense.”

            Mack ignored him. “So where should we go instead?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, Fitz is walking over right now, so where should go instead?”

            “Ah, come on, this is the best pub in town—”

            “Hunter—”

            “—and Bob’s getting in tonight—”

            “Hunter!”

            “—and—ah—too late.”

            A muscle twitched in Mack's jaw, but he said nothing more, because Fitz had just walked in. 

 

* * *

 

           

           

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muahaha, okay, so I feel a bit evil for that cliffhanger. But you won't have to wait long, I promise. And certain misunderstandings will soon be cleared up ... though I can't promise there won't be a few more before the end. ;) Thank you again for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first things first: I'm so sorry for the delay on this chapter. I know I promised it would be up quickly, and then I wrote about four different versions of this scene before I was happy, so . . . it took ages to get right. I feel guilty and horrible and I won't let it happen again!
> 
> Also, this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, so I'm sorry about that, too. My excuse is that I didn't want to make you wait any longer. I'll work on getting the next one up even faster to continue my penance. ;)
> 
> And now, chapter four, or 'Daisy and Hunter Have a Shenanigan-Off.'

* * *

            “Did she see me come in?” Fitz asked without preamble as he took the empty seat between Mack and Hunter. Mack shifted to look at Jemma’s corner, but Fitz stopped him. “Don’t look now!”

            Mack’s eyes shifted past Fitz to land on Hunter, his expression decidedly un-amused. Hunter shrugged.

            Fitz ignored this exchange, lowering his voice further to say, “I can’t exactly turn around and leave again—”

            “Right,” said Hunter slowly, “because _then_ you’d be acting mental—”

            “—so I’ll just have one pint and be off, yeah? And if you see her walking over here, warn me.”

            “Unh-uh. No way. This time, you’re on your own,” said Mack, taking a sizeable drink from his half-empty pint.          

            But Hunter leaned forward over his elbows, raising his eyebrows at Fitz. “What’s the matter, then? Date didn’t go well?”

            “ _Meeting_ , it was a meeting,” Fitz said, distracted, as the barman approached. Fitz ordered a pint in a low murmur—the barman raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he went off to pour—and Fitz turned to Hunter. “It was great. She’s amazing. God, I knew this was a mistake.”

            “Right, yeah, huge mistake.”

            “I think she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. She’s brilliant. And . . .” He sounded absolutely miserable. “And this was a terrible idea.”

            “Terrible, yeah.” Hunter took a sip of his beer, and when it sounded like Fitz had finally run out of things to say, he asked, “Why is it terrible again?”

            “Isn’t it obvious?”

            “She’s beautiful, brilliant, all that stuff?”

            “Exactly.”

            “Last time I checked, those were all good qualities.”

            “Yes, that’s the point,” said Fitz, narrowing his eyes. He turned to Mack. “Did you have to invite him?”

            “Oi!” Hunter sat a bit straighter. “Trying to help here!”

            “I don’t need your help.”

            “Yeah, because it’s not like I have any experience in sabotaging a relationship before it even starts.”

            Mack set down his drink, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Whoa, when does Bobbi arrive again? Because I think she’ll want to hear this.”

            Hunter glared at them both. “Bob’s worse than me,” he said. “So take the advice of someone who has been _literally_ screwed over—”

            “I’m going to go pay for my drink,” said Fitz, standing up. He made a step to move down the bar toward the till, but paused and turned back to Hunter. “Look—just—let it go, would you? I can see where I’m not wanted.”

            Hunter stared back at him for several long seconds, then shrugged and said, nonchalant, “Your funeral, mate.”

            A look of relief crossed Fitz’s face as he walked out of hearing range to pay.

            Mack turned to Hunter. “Lying?”

            “Yep. Definitely lying.” Hunter’s eyes slid from Fitz wrestling with his pockets to Jemma’s table in the corner. “Now how about plan B?”

 

* * *

 

            An evening of strategic Google searches meant that Daisy recognized Dr. Leopold Fitz from his MIT staff photo as soon as he walked in. True, his curls had been tamed somewhat since then, and his freshly-grown scruff made him look a bit older—but he was basically the same nerd. Cute nerd. Just not her type.

            Jemma, though—well, Daisy had never seen her so excited about a date in all their many years of friendship. At first glance, Daisy would’ve said that Dr. Fitz wasn’t Jemma’s type, either: the spattering of guys in her friend’s past had been a bit, er, musclier. However, Daisy had often privately thought that _Jemma’s type_ wasn’t exactly Jemma’s type. Her friend had a tendency to go for any guy who gave her the time of day, and most of them had been dumb jerks. Hence Daisy’s _protective_ nature.

            Jemma’s non-history was one of many factors that made Daisy slightly distrustful of her friend’s judgment on this matter. It was time for a casual intervention. Daisy needed to meet this guy for herself. And if Dr. Fitz was really as cold and disinterested as Jemma had described, then the intervention could become, well, slightly less casual. Easy as that.

            “T-shirt time!” Daisy called over the chatter between Jemma and her brothers. Fortunately, Jemma had chosen a seat with her back to the pub door, so she’d missed this new development.

            “I thought the whole t-shirt thing was only a joke,” said Jemma, surprised.

            “Not a joke, and not optional.” Daisy pulled Jemma’s shirt from her bag and tossed it across the table. “The bathroom’s back there,” she said, gesturing away from the bar with a smile.

            “But I—”

            “Not. Optional.”

            Jemma sighed, collected her shirt, and went away to the bathroom with a roll of her eyes.

            “Right.” Daisy threw the rest of the shirts to Arthur and said, “Hand those out,” before bee-lining to the bar.

            “Where are you going?” Arthur called after her.

            She smiled over her shoulder. “Time to get Jemma a drink.”

 

* * *

 

            Jemma studied herself in the mirror, glancing down to read the block letters on her t-shirt. She turned her head, trying to get a better view, and then looked at the mirror again. She sighed. Face wan and pale again, hair gone flat, mascara smudged. She wiped at the smudges, then stopped, wondering why she bothered. Even when she gave it her best effort, it seemed she couldn’t interest the one guy who mattered.

            The door behind her swung open and Daisy appeared, her own t-shirt already pulled on over a black camisole. “What’s taking you so long?” she asked. “Come on, I need you to make some introductions.”

            But Jemma wasn’t quite listening. “Why does my shirt say ‘Eagle Two’?” she asked.

            Daisy grabbed her by the wrist. “It’s a joke. Parks and Rec.” At Jemma’s blank look, she said, “You know what, never mind, I’ll add it to our Netflix queue. Now, do you want to meet some local boys or not?”

            “Not,” Jemma said, scanning her own tired features again in the dirty mirror. “Just come find me when they’re gone.”

            “Something tells me you’ll want to meet these ones,” said Daisy, her tone full of its usual mischief.

            Jemma, who was well used to Daisy’s . . . _shenanigans . . ._ after their many years of friendship, suspected a setup to make her feel better. Tonight, she wasn’t buying it. “I know what you’re doing, you know,” she said, gently but firmly removing her wrist from her friend’s grasp. “I think I’m better off in here.”

            “Wrong, and wrong,” said Daisy, her voice flippant. She gave up on tugging Jemma out the door, and gave her a gentle shove instead.

            As the door to the Ladies swung shut behind them, Jemma froze. “Oh no,” she said. “No no no—” She tried to fight her way back into the loo, but Daisy held her ground.

            “Not so fast,” Daisy said. “You don’t want to leave Fitz and your brothers alone, do you? That would just be . . . cruel.”

            “I’ll show you cruel,” said Jemma, but Daisy had a point. However her friend had managed it—and since when was Fitz even in this pub?!—Jemma had no choice now but to intervene. She gave up her struggle and turned back to the table.

            Jemma heard the grin in Daisy’s voice when she said, “Oh, and I bought you another drink. I thought you might need it.”

 

* * *

 

            It had all happened so fast. Fitz had barely resumed his empty seat again, pint in hand, when Jemma’s friend had sauntered up to the bar, leaning on her elbows as she waited to order a drink. Next thing he knew, she was chatting with Hunter, who appeared all too pleased with this development, despite his promise to stay out of the situation. Well, it wasn’t exactly a promise. Or even a mild agreement. Fitz could see that now.

            Sure enough, Daisy (as she’d introduced herself) had thrown out an invitation to her table, and before Fitz could open his mouth, Hunter had accepted on their behalf. Which was why, thirty seconds and a dash of internal panic later, Fitz found himself hovering behind Hunter and Mack as Jemma’s brothers—and boyfriend, Fitz thought, don’t forget him—welcomed them over.

            “Always nice to meet some new faces,” Hunter was saying, shaking hands with the lot of them. Fitz interrupted his panic to wonder if he could program the Golden Retrievers to kill a man. Probably not. But maybe the Dwarves—

            “Likewise,” said one of Jemma’s brothers. He didn’t look as much like her as the other one did—the speaker was tall and gangly, with blue eyes and darker hair—but Fitz saw a resemblance between them when he smiled. “I’m Henry,” he said, then gestured to the t-shirt he’d pulled on over his other layer. “Groom-to-be.”

            Since his t-shirt said “Been there, done that,” Fitz wasn’t quite sure of the reasoning behind the gesture, but he shook Henry’s hand with a genuine smile when his turn came around. Henry didn’t seem like the kind of bloke who would break a guy’s legs for looking at his sister, so that was a good thing.

            Except that his sister was taken, and there would be no more looking, Fitz reminded himself. Apropos to his thoughts, the next to offer him a hand for shaking was the boyfriend. Fitz forced himself to keep a smile in place.

            “I’m Dev,” said the boyfriend as they shook hands. Beneath a dark green cardigan, his t-shirt read “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.” “I’m—”

            “I’d hoped to help you avoid this as long as possible,” a voice interrupted before Dev could finish. Fitz was almost relieved. He hadn’t exactly wanted to hear Perfect Hair go on at length about being Jemma’s partner. Then he registered that the voice belonged to Jemma herself, and he felt his brain go all panicky again. _Shit shit shit—_

            But she was smiling up at him, her expression teasing, her cheeks a pleasant pink, probably from the warmth in the pub (it certainly felt warm to Fitz all of a sudden). He could not resist smiling back. “After all, I know you came here have a drink with your friends—”

            “Oh, it’s all right, they’re not my friends,” Fitz said. When her smile faltered, he added, “I mean, he’s not my friend.” He waved at Hunter. “Mack’s all right.”

            “Oh—”

            “But, yeah, sorry to interrupt,” Fitz finished. _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ , his brain chorused.

            Jemma’s face cleared. “No, not at all! You’re not interrupting. I only meant, my brothers can be a bit, well . . . ridiculous.”

            Arthur and Henry were in conversation with Daisy, Hunter, and Mack, but Dev overheard this playful statement and leaned toward them. “Do you mean you already know this bloke, Jem?” he asked. His voice sounded almost teasing, as if he knew the answer already but wanted to make Jemma admit it. When Fitz glanced over at Jemma, her flush had gotten worse. Oh, God, she was embarrassed to know him, and even her boyfriend was teasing her about it.

            Forget killing Hunter. Fitz wondered if he could summon the Retrievers and use them to make _himself_ disappear.

            “Dev, this is Fitz,” said Jemma, forceful, as if determined to ignore his previous statement. “Fitz, this is Dev, a very rude person who happens to be dating my brother—”

            “Sorry, what?”

            Jemma blinked at him, startled by the force of his reaction, but Fitz almost didn’t notice. Could he have heard that correctly? Maybe his ears had stopped functioning as well as his brain? Because surely . . .

            “This is Dev,” Jemma repeated, the humor gone from her voice and replaced with something else that Fitz couldn’t define. “He’s my brother Arthur’s boyfriend.”

            “Nice to meet you, Fitz,” Dev said quietly, holding out his hand again for Fitz to shake.

            “Your brother’s—? I mean, yeah, that’s great. Right. Cool. Very cool.” Fitz shook Dev’s hand with a bit more enthusiasm then he intended. How could he have hated this guy? The kind smile that spread across Dev’s features was open and unassuming, if a bit puzzled. He wasn’t dating Jemma at all. He was her brother’s boyfriend. He was suddenly the best bloke in the whole pub. “It’s great to meet someone from Jemma’s family,” said Fitz, but his mouth was just kind of filling up the silence at this point so that he wouldn’t say something stupid, like “by the way, I want to date her and I think she’s beautiful.”

            The only possible infringement upon his sudden happiness was Fitz’s memory of how he had treated Jemma earlier, all because he thought she had a boyfriend who hadn’t, in fact, been real. (For some reason, the mental image of Mack saying “I told you so” came to mind, but Fitz dismissed it as best he could.) Fitz glanced over at her, wondering how he could make up for the damage that had already been done. She looked a bit pale all of a sudden, her flush gone, her knuckles white around the pint she was holding. When she caught him staring at her, she pasted on a thin smile and said, “Could you just excuse me a moment? I’ll be right back.” And she fled.        

            Fitz watched her go, unable to keep from biting his lip in worry. That answered that, then. She was upset at him, and rightly so. He’d been a complete idiot—as usual. But she’d been so happy to see him a moment before  . . . or had he just been misreading the signs again? _Idiot_ , he thought . . .

            “Right,” said Dev, drawing Fitz back to reality. Dev, too, was watching Jemma walk away with a frown wrinkling his brow. But his face cleared as he turned back to Fitz and gestured for him to take a seat. “So, tell me, Fitz, are you perhaps the science-y bloke our Jemma met earlier today?”

 

* * *

 

            Daisy was mid-sentence in conversation with Arthur and Fitz’s friends, but Jemma didn’t let that stop her. She grabbed Daisy by the elbow and dragged her forcefully to the Ladies.

            “Ow,” said Daisy, rubbing her elbow when they were safely inside and alone. “I knew you were mad, but there’s no need to Hulk out. Fitz seems—”         

            “Gay.”

            “—like a nice guy. What?”

            “I said, he’s gay.”

  
            Daisy crossed her arms across her “Eagle One” shirt, shifting her weight on her feet. “Why do you say that?”

            Jemma began to pace. “I just introduced him to Dev, and you should have seen his reaction when I said Dev was dating Arthur. I swear, he got really excited—and he smiled, like—well, like he hasn’t smiled before when talking to me.” She stopped and turned to Daisy, unable to hide her disappointment, as hard as she tried. “God, I’m such an idiot!”

            “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Yes, you’re being stupid, but not in the way you think.”

            Jemma’s expression somehow managed to be both miserable and annoyed. “You didn’t see his face,” she said.

            “Exactly,” said Daisy. “And excuse me if I don’t trust your testimony. Maybe he’s just really excited about gay rights?”

            Jemma gave her a look that said, “really?”

            “Seriously!” said Daisy, dropping her arms in frustration. “I mean, he grew up here in the middle of nowhere. How do you know he’s not just excited to meet a real live gay person for a change?”

            “How do you know he _isn’t_ one?”

            Daisy narrowed her eyes, but didn’t answer quickly enough. Jemma began ticking off her fingers as she continued pacing in the tiny area. “First of all, shame on me for assuming anything about his sexuality. Secondly, he’s stylish, easy to talk to, and has a great relationship with his mother.” She stopped and threw up her hands. “The signs were all there!”

            “Okay, did you just hear yourself? Remember the part one second ago where you said, ‘don’t assume’?” Daisy walked around until she was facing Jemma so she could put her arms on her friend’s shoulders and give her a small shake. “I know you’re just being insecure, so I’m going to make you go back out there and start by assuming nothing. Deal? Besides, there are a lot more things he could be besides gay and straight. So let’s start with ‘interested.’”

            Jemma bit her lip. Daisy was right, of course. She only cared so much because it was embarrassing—and disappointing—to think she could have mistaken his friendship for something more. In any other circumstances, she would let him speak for himself, no labels attached, as she would with anyone.

            But she couldn’t help remembering the way Fitz had relaxed upon meeting Dev—the way he smiled when he turned to her, as if some weight had been lifted off his shoulders—and, privately, she thought Daisy was wrong. But she sighed and prepared to go back to the pub. It’s not like she and Fitz couldn’t still be friends. This changed nothing about her opinion of him as one of the most special, intelligent, interesting people she had ever met.

            “Besides,” Daisy said after a moment, “‘stylish’ isn’t _exactly_ the word I would use—”

            “Daisy—”

            “And you know you just listed a bunch of stereotypes that are totally untrue, right?”

            “ _Daisy—_ ”

            “And he may be easy for _you_ to talk to, but—”       

            “All right, all right, I get it. Let’s go.” And Daisy grinned as Jemma pushed back into the pub.

* * *

 

 

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, our brainy little science children and their utter cluelessness! It's got to be one of my favorite aspects of their personalities, as long as it doesn't become ridiculous (or, dare I say it, "drawn out to the point of absurdity"?). ;) I promise more revelations next chapter. And lots of snow. 
> 
> (Also, I couldn't resist a little Parks n' Rec reference with the t-shirts.)
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, and/or left kudos last chapter! Seriously, every single notification I get makes me 1) happy for the day and 2) want to write more, better, and faster for all you lovely people. <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter.

           

* * *

 

            Jemma greeted Fitz with what she hoped was a normal smile upon her return from the loo. She was determined not to treat him any differently, regardless of her recent revelation. After all, this changed nothing about the potential for them to be good friends. She claimed the empty seat beside him, careful not to sit too close.

            “Everything all right?” asked Dev from across the table. Jemma cursed his observant nature as she turned her smile on him.

            “I’m fine,” she said. “I just had to ask Daisy something.”

            “Mm-hmm,” he replied, his tone skeptical, but Jemma ignored him, facing Fitz instead. She was surprised to find his eyes already on her, his gaze more intense and assessing than it had ever been. He looked away as she faced him, but not before she caught the piercing blue of his eyes.

            Blood rushed to her cheeks. _Maybe “fine” isn’t_ quite _the most accurate word choice at this juncture . . ._

            But Jemma was nothing if not determined. Once she had made her mind up about something, she was damned if she would alter course. Therefore, she told herself, with a little more of an effort, I’m sure we could be good friends. Emphasis on _friends_.

            Despite this resolute line of thinking, all Jemma’s go-to conversation starters had flown her mind at the sight of Fitz’s eyes. She stared down the table instead, willing her flush to go away. Just at that moment, she caught sight of her brothers standing up from their end of the table as Mack and Hunter returned to the bar for the next round. Arthur and Henry saw her looking and began walking over.

            “All right?” asked Arthur, something vaguely ominous in his smile. As he turned his expression on Fitz, Jemma saw why. “And you must be the bloke Jemma won’t shut up about.” He even had the audacity to wink at her. “I’m Arthur, the middle one.”

            “Yeah, he can tell,” said Henry, before turning to Fitz. “Never mind him. Do you fancy another drink? We were just heading up to the bar for seconds.”

            “Oh, er, yeah, I suppose I—”

            Arthur didn’t even let him finish. “Dev?” he asked, and his boyfriend shrugged and stood.

            “Jemma?” Arthur finished his circuit of the table by turning to her. Were Fitz’s face not in the periphery of her vision, she would be glaring her brother into the ground. Instead, she forced a pleasant expression into place and said, “No, thank you, brother dearest.”

            Arthur shrugged. “Suit yourself. You may regret that come karaoke time.” He turned toward the bar as Fitz and Dev stood to follow. Jemma watched them go, Arthur roping Fitz into a conversation as soon as they were out of earshot.

            Daisy was the only one left at the table. She was down at the other end, absorbed in her phone. Jemma crossed to where she sat and, still watching the group of boys as they met Hunter and Mack at the bar, she said, “They won’t be too hard on him, will they?”

            Daisy didn’t even glance up from her phone screen. “Oh, they absolutely will.”    

            Jemma sighed. She watched a minute longer. Whatever Arthur was saying to Fitz, he was managing to say it without vacillating from his friendly smile. That worried Jemma, but eventually she gave up and turned to her friend—

            —only to catch Daisy scrolling through Google results for “Dr. Leopold Fitz.”

            “Daisy! What are you doing?” Jemma hissed.

            “I’m just looking for social media accounts,” Daisy said, her eyes still glued to the phone. “I mean, I checked all this last night and found nothing, but—”

            “You _what?_ ”

            Daisy glanced up at last. “Hacker, remember? Besides, someone has to make sure he’s not a psycho.”

            “Or you could just trust my judgment,” Jemma pointed out.

            Daisy gave her a significant look before turning back to the phone.

            “What? Are you saying I can’t tell a good guy from a bad one?”

            “I’m not saying anything,” Daisy replied innocently.

            Jemma narrowed her eyes. “Okay. I get it. Let me guess.” She watched as Daisy scrolled through another page of search results. “You think I’m too nice.”

            “Well, it’s more like an occasional lack of common sense—” But Daisy was only teasing. She caught Jemma’s expression and stopped laughing. “Don’t worry. If it’s any consolation, I think you picked a winner this time.” She held up her phone. “And I think he might be less experienced that you, if that’s possible.”

            “You’re right, that makes me feel _so_ much better.” Jemma glared, first at Daisy, then at a spot on the wall above her head. Anywhere except Daisy’s phone screen, which she was currently dangling in front of Jemma’s face.

            “Come on,” said Daisy. “You know you want to . . .”

            “No, thank you. I think I’ll just find out from him like a normal person.”

            “Like you found out he wasn’t interested in women?” Jemma’s glare dropped from the wall to Daisy’s face, but she looked away again just as quickly. She didn’t want Daisy to see the doubt that might be creeping into her expression.

            Daisy was too quick for her. She laughed knowingly and returned to scrolling through the phone. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Well, he’s just as mysterious online as he is in person. No Facebook profile, no twitter, no instagram. Definitely no dating history. We’re talking social. Media. Ghost.”

            Jemma half-covered her ears. “Oh, I don’t want to hear this—is there anything you _didn’t_ find out about him?”

            Daisy’s expression turned contemplative. “Actually, there was one weird thing about his dad—”

            “Rhetorical question!” Jemma said, blocking out the rest of Daisy’s words. When Jemma didn’t drop her hands from her ears, Daisy finally relented, turning over her phone so it was screen-down on the table. Seeing this, Jemma let her hands fall to her lap, her face wary.

            “Look, I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, right?” Daisy said. “I found an MIT staff photo and a few papers with titles I can’t pronounce. We’ll have to do this your way.”

            “You mean, get to know him as friends and let him reveal whatever he’s comfortable with?”

            Daisy’s mischievous grin was back. “Something like that.”

* * *

 

            Fitz did not think he could have become any more nervous, but as always, the universe proved him wrong. Not that he believed the universe ever set out to “prove” anything. However, if he _were_ the kind of person who believed that sort of thing, the last few hours would be offering some compelling evidence.

            “Tell me, Fitz, do you like cricket?”

            This was probably the last question on earth Fitz expected from Arthur. “What are your intentions with my sister?” maybe, or, “Have you got any STIs or perhaps a criminal record?” Weren’t these the sort of questions brothers asked their sister’s—um—suitors? At least in the television dramas his mother liked to watch sometimes. Fitz had very little (correction: no) experience with such things in real life. He tried to keep the surprise and confusion from his voice when he answered, “Er, not particularly, no. Do you?”

            Arthur smiled. It would probably have looked friendly to most people, but for some reason Fitz could not suppress a hint of worry. Probably just fight-or-flight response when dealing with the muscle-y brother of the girl you’re interested in, he told himself in an attempt at comfort. “As a matter of fact, yes,” said Arthur as they neared the bar. Hunter and Mack were passing a couple of pitchers back to Henry and insisting they would pay. No one looked in Fitz’s direction. “I used to play.”

            “Did you?” Best to go along with the conversation, Fitz told himself, feigning interest. Maybe Arthur was just making typical guy conversation about sport (something else Fitz had seen on the telly, and occasionally in person whenever Hunter was on shift at Mack’s garage). “Which, um, position?”

            Arthur continued to speak through that misleading smile. “Bowler. I wasn’t bad, actually, in my younger days. Played on the British Universities team. I could bowl at 93 miles per hour.”

            That sounded pretty fast to Fitz. The little he knew of cricket reminded him that the bowler threw the game ball toward the batsman, and throwing without any mechanical help at 93 miles per hour was no small feat. “Impressive,” said Fitz with complete honesty.

            “Thanks. Yeah, that’s professional-level speed.” Arthur paused, and Fitz took a second to wonder where this bizarre conversation was headed. His cricket knowledge would run out soon (or perhaps already had). But then Arthur said, “Do you know what happens when a person gets hit in the face with a cricket ball going 93 miles per hour?”

            Fitz blinked. “Um, no, actually I—”

            “‘Unpleasant’ is one word I would use.” But Arthur was still smiling. Why was he still smiling? The ominous, worrisome feeling in the region of Fitz’s stomach only got worse. “And that’s nothing to the damage you could do with a cricket bat. Hypothetically, of course. To someone who had _really_ pissed you off.”

            Fitz’s throat went a bit dry. “Right,” he managed, but not much more would get out at that moment.

            “Or if this hypothetical person had hypothetically, I dunno, hurt a person you cared about.” For the first time in the conversation, the smile dropped from Arthur’s face. He was staring directly into Fitz’s eyes, his meaning all too clear. So much for subtle “guy talk,” Fitz thought, though only a small part of his brain was functioning. The rest was focused on projecting innocence, sincerity, and anything else that lessened his resemblance to the sort of person Arthur was describing.

            Just as quickly, Arthur’s serious face disappeared, and he laughed. He clapped Fitz on the back, making him stagger forward about a foot and leaving a stinging sensation near his shoulder blade. “God, you should see your face,” he said. Then, he turned toward the others at the bar, saying, “Come on, have you paid yet?”

* * *

 

            When the group arrived back from the bar with two pitchers of beer and a rather pale Fitz, Jemma’s anxiety got ten times worse. What had Arthur been saying to make him go all greenish like that? Surely not the cricket stuff again? He usually saved that for the second date—if there was a second date. Typically not, for unrelated reasons.

            . . . which only made Jemma a bit disappointed all over again. So she finally found a guy who was both interesting _and_ attractive. The two traits, in her experience, did not often coincide. It only made sense, therefore, that _he_ would not be interested in _her._ She should make it a new law of the universe. Jemma’s Law. _Only two of the following three characteristics can exist simultaneously in a potential mate—_

She stopped herself. So much for thinking of him as a friend. She straightened her posture and opened her mouth to start a casual, normal conversation.

            Before she could think of what that might entail, the server showed up with their food. Between the shuffling of plates and the distraction of dinner, the moment passed. Daisy was busy asking Fitz if he wanted anything to eat.

            “Ah, no, but thanks,” he said from across the table. “I’m supposed to be eating with my mum tonight. In fact—”

            “But you can’t leave!” Daisy said, before he could even get the words out. “We’re going upstairs for karaoke after this!”

            “All the more reason—” Fitz began, shy humor in his voice, but the conversation was interrupted by a sound halfway between a groan and a curse from his other side.

            Jemma, Daisy, Fitz, and Mack all turned to face Hunter, from whom the unearthly sound had come. “Please tell me you put something in my drink,” he was saying, “and this is the worst trip of my life. Er, second-worst.” Presumably he was speaking to Mack, but his eyes were on the front of the pub.

            Jemma glanced in that direction. Just inside the pub door, snowflakes swirling in after her, was a tall blonde in dark jeans and a black sweater. Her stance was confident as she moved forward and leaned both hands against the bar.

            “Someone you know?” Daisy asked him drily.

            Jemma heard Fitz say, “Uh oh.”

            Hunter stood up rather quickly, Mack a second behind him. From their murmured conversation and the hand on Hunter’s chest, Jemma assumed Mack was trying to prevent his friend from crossing the room—in vain, because a second later Hunter was halfway to the bar.

            “Oh, no,” said Fitz, a bit louder this time.

            But another distraction presented itself from the opposite end of the table. Henry was standing up and peering outside the pub windows, having noticed that their blonde visitor arrived in a swirl of snow. “Hang on,” he said, turning to meet Daisy’s eyes. “How are we getting back again?” Illuminated by streetlights, the snow outside was already six inches deep and falling fast.

            Daisy frowned out the windows. “Taxi service. I arranged it for ten o’clock.”

            “Are the buses still running?” asked Dev, also watching the snow.

            Daisy shrugged, then pulled out her phone. “Let me see—”

            But Fitz cleared his throat. “Probably not,” he said. “They stop after six o’clock on Sundays.”

            Daisy stopped typing mid-search, her thumbs frozen over the phone screen. “Damn. Well, if it doesn’t let it up, we can hail a cab earlier—”

            But Fitz was shaking his head, his expression apologetic. “Actually, you’ll be lucky if you can. Crieff isn’t exactly London . . .”

            “I’ll say.” Daisy turned back to the windows. Jemma followed her gaze. If anything, the snow had gotten worse over the course of their conversation. They couldn’t see the shops across the street anymore—only the dim tunnel of light provided by the street lamps, illuminating a curtain of gossamer white. 

            By the time Jemma brought her attention back to the table, her brothers and Dev were exchanging looks of bewilderment. After a few seconds, Henry glanced down at Daisy. “Any chance we could move forward that pick-up time?” he asked.

            Daisy’s eyes widened. “But . . . but . . . karaoke . . .”

            Henry’s half-smile was understanding. “We could do it at the cottage instead? Or, dare I say it—drunken snowball fight?”

            A smile spread across Daisy’s face, clearing her disappointment. “Oh my god. Snowball t-shirt war. And hot cocoa afterward.” She practically jumped up from the table, taking her phone with her. “Eat quickly, children,” she called back to them, already dialing.

            “Wait. Did she say ‘t-shirt’?” Dev asked no-one in particular as she departed.

            Jemma frowned at her fish and chips. Yes, it was probably for the best that they make it back safe and sound to their cottage in the middle of nowhere _before_ snow made the roads impassable. And, yes, this wasn’t a date, only a casual drink between friends, so she had no reason to be this disappointed that her time with Fitz was coming to an end. Yet disappointment sunk her heart just the same. She glanced over her plate to judge his expression and caught him half-turned in his seat, watching Hunter and the blonde at the front of the pub. A heated discussion in half-lowered voices was going on, complete with Hunter’s dramatic gestures. The blonde stood with her arms crossed and her eyes on the ceiling.

            After a long silence, Jemma gathered up the nerve to say, “Let me guess. Tough break-up?”

            Fitz turned back to face her. “You could say that, yeah.”

            She realized a second too late that she’d been starting to smile—a highly inappropriate expression considering their topic of conversation. But the way Fitz wasn’t _quite_ meeting her eyes, the way his lips curved up almost unnoticeably at the edges, the redness that was almost undetectable at the tops of his ears—they was a shyness and insecurity about him that only made her like him more. She would enjoy the opportunity of convincing him how great he really was—as _friend_ s did for each other, she added in her thoughts. Naturally.

            “Fitz,” she began, and it was her turn to drop her gaze to the table instead, “I actually had a really good time . . .”

            He started speaking before she could figure out how to finish that sentence in a decidedly platonic way. “—so did I, I mean, I’m sorry for being such an arse earlier—”

            She had to glance up then in surprise. “What do you mean?”

            There were those blue eyes again, meeting hers. Always unexpectedly captivating when they did. “Well, I—”

            “Back,” Daisy announced, sitting down in her seat again. Fitz glanced away and Jemma let her eyes drop to her plate to hide her confusion. It was only a brief conversation, utterly devoid of subtext, so _why_ did she feel embarrassed at the idea of Daisy overhearing? But her friend continued, seemingly oblivious to what she had interrupted. “Taxis will be here in ten.”

            “Will we fit?” asked Arthur from down the table.

            “I don’t know, did you _really_ finish that burger?” Daisy replied, eyebrow raised. Then she laughed. “Yeah, we should be fine. They’re sending two.”

            The banter continued as Arthur flung something back at her, which meant no one was paying attention except Jemma as Fitz started to say, “Right, that’s my cue—”

            “—and I guess I’ll get a box for takeaway—”

            “—but, yeah, it was great to meet up today, and thanks for your notes—”

            “—I just hope they help, I mean, your ideas were fantastic—”

            Fitz smiled. Jemma smiled. She thought of a million un-platonic things she wanted to add, but she forced herself to keep her mouth closed. He stood up, pulling his coat from the back of his chair, and stared in the direction of her shoes for his finale goodbye. “I guess I’ll, um, text you, then?”

            “Oh, yes, please do.” Please do? Was she actually fifty? And how enthusiastic did she sound—“science is great!” or “please let me take you home and undress you”? These were normally the sort of questions Jemma would ask Daisy’s advice on, but her friend was absorbed in getting cash from everyone so they could meet their taxis in time. And as all these thoughts crowded her mind, Fitz had already walked halfway across the bar to meet his friends.

            Jemma buried her face in her hands. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had always been terrible at flirting, but now that she was trying to flirt _as friends_ , she had reached a new low. She’d be better off avoiding him for a while before she scared him away entirely.

            She dropped her hands from her eyes when Daisy nudged her with an elbow. “Hey. Eagle Two. You okay?”

            “Fine, great,” said Jemma quickly. “I’m just going to, um, grab a box for this food.”

            “Right.” Daisy was frowning. “Well, hurry up, because we’re heading outside. Taxis want to meet us at the curb, and they’re kind of mad that they had to show up, like, four hours early.”

            “I’ll be right behind you.” The rest of them stood and began wrapping up in coats and scarves as Jemma hurried to the back of the bar, careful to avoid the area where Hunter and the blonde still carried out a hushed debate. She didn’t want to look in that direction in case Fitz caught her staring. Hidden as she was in the back corner, it took a while for her to catch the barman’s attention. When she did, he shook his head and pointed back toward the kitchen.

            “You’ll have to ask there, love,” he said. “We don’t carry them at the bar.”

            “Right.” Jemma smiled and hurried toward the back of the pub, where their food had come from. Her table was now decidedly empty, but it had only been a few minutes, and she knew Daisy wouldn’t leave without her.

            By the time she had returned from the kitchen, the scene at the front of the pub hadn’t changed, but Jemma’s group had been long gone. She hurried to slide her food into the box, threw on her coat, and rushed outside so quickly that she forgot to prepare for the snow in her face.

            Blinking rapidly and wishing she’d looked harder for her scarf that afternoon, Jemma bent her head and followed the line of footprints, rapidly filling, to the curb—

            —only to discover tire tracks and an empty patch of pavement where her brothers should have been.

            Jemma rubbed snowflakes from her eyes and tried again, but the scene remained the same: no taxis, no brothers, no Daisy. Snow up to her shins and falling fast. She peered up and down the street, but everything was blanketed in white, save for the streetlight, which only illuminated the tracks veering away from her as if to draw specific attention to her circumstances.

            Numb with disbelief—or perhaps from cold—Jemma tromped back to the pub front and, half-protected by its awning, pulled out her phone and dialed Daisy.

            “Hi!” came the sound of Daisy’s voicemail through the phone. “I’m probably available, I’m just avoiding someone I don’t like. Leave a message, and if I don’t call back, it’s you.” _Beep!_

            Jemma hung up (perhaps a bit violently) and tried again. “Hi! I’m probably available—”

            “Ugh!” said Jemma, hanging up a second time. She tried dialing Henry this time—after all, he was neurotic enough to _never_ miss a phone call—but, to her shock, it went to voicemail immediately. Okay, neurotic enough _except_ when he’d turned his phone off for his stag party. Jemma tried Dev and Arthur after that, but neither of them picked up, either.

            Out of sheer desperation, Jemma ignored the barrage of snow, plunging out to the curb again to see if the taxis were coming back around. _Surely_ they’d have noticed that Jemma wasn’t with them. But Daisy had said they were taking two separate taxis—so it was just possible that they each thought Jemma was in the other car—

            She trudged back to the pub front again, clutching the box of food that had been her reason for staying behind. A layer of snow had collected on top of it, soaking through the cardboard to the food, which meant it was probably inedible anyway.

            Jemma tried to suppress her growing panic with a dose of logic. So the buses weren’t running, and she couldn’t exactly stand on the curb and wait for a cab to go by. That didn’t mean there were no cab agencies working. She pulled out her phone and, after a brief search, found the number for the nearest service.

            “Star Cabs Scotland, could you please hold?”

            “Yes,” said Jemma, but the line had already gone to hold music before she could finish speaking. Ironically enough, it was playing “White Christmas.” Jemma held the phone away from her ear.

            Her footprints to the curbside and back had almost completely filled with snow by the time she was taken off hold. “Thank you for waiting,” said the heavily-accented voice on the other end of the line. “How can I help you?”

            “I’d like a taxi from the Caledonian Pub in Crieff, please.”

            “Ah. I’m sorry, miss, but we’re running a bit behind tonight due to weather in your area. It’ll be about four hours.”

            “ _Four—_?! I’m sorry, I think I misheard, did you say—”

            “Four hours, yes.” There was a distinct flavor of boredom in the voice on the other line. “We’ve had to prioritize customers who called ahead, and our vehicles are limited due to the snow.”

            “Sorry, where am I calling to?”

            “Perth, miss.”

            Great. So they were servicing the whole of Eastern Scotland for all Jemma knew. She thanked the woman and hung up, staring listlessly out at the snow. Another layer had accumulated in front of her by the time she thought to try all the other services.

            They gave her similar answers. One man even laughed at her for asking. Apparently this storm was the worst of the winter so far, even the worst in years, one person said. _Bloody Scotland—_

Jemma jumped at the sound of her mobile ringing. It was Daisy.

            “Daisy—”

            “Miss me already?” asked Daisy from the other end of the line. “Couldn’t even wait five minutes? I’m flattered—”

            “Who is in that taxi with you?”

            “Henry.”

            “And who is in the other one?”

            “Arthur and Dev . . . and . . .” Daisy’s voice trailed off as realization sunk in. “Wait . . .”

            “Mm-hmm. _And_ no one. Because I happen to be standing outside the pub, wondering why the taxis are gone. As are my friends.”

            “Oh my God, Jemma, I’m so sorry!” Daisy really did sound apologetic, Jemma registered, but it did nothing to quell her annoyance.

            “How could you have _forgotten_ me? I said I would be _right behind you._ ”   

            “Exactly!” said Daisy. “ _Right_ behind usually means—”

            “There were only five of us! I assumed you’d be able to count that high!”

            “Whoa, angry Jemma. Okay, okay, let me see if this guy can turn around.”

            The wind changed direction as Jemma waited, sending globs of snowfall into her eyes. She turned her back to the street in order to protect her face, looking into the pub instead. Through the frosted glass of the pub windows, she could see Fitz standing in his cluster of friends near the bar. The sight made her thankful that he wasn’t out here witnessing her complete trouncing by a Scottish storm for the _second_ time in days.

            “Jemma? Bad news.” Daisy’s voice was very small on the other end of the line, as if she were hoping Jemma wouldn’t hear her at all. “These drivers are kind of already pissed at me for making them show up early on short notice. Not to mention we got stuck twice on this dirt road. So . . . um . . . they’re kind of refusing to turn around for you—”

            Jemma closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the pub window. It was freezing cold and wet, but it gave her a moment’s clarity, keeping her temper at bay. “You know what, Daisy, it’s fine. I don’t blame them. I’ll just wait here until I can get another one—”

            “Is Fitz still there?”

            Almost against her will, Jemma’s eyes popped open and sought out the object of Daisy’s question. “Yes,” she said slowly into the phone, watching as the blur of clothes and curls that was Fitz moved nearer to the bar. “But how is that relevant?”

            “Well, can’t you stay at his place tonight? It’s only supposed to get worse—”

            “Ohhh no,” Jemma said, wishing Daisy could see her expression at that moment. “Oh no you don’t. You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

            “Trying to keep you from taxi-ing home at midnight in a terrible snowstorm?”

            “I don’t believe this.” Jemma lost focus on Fitz as she leaned her forehead against the window again. She resisted the urge to bang her head a few times for good measure. “I have to say, I’m almost impressed.”

            “What are you talking about? Are you already succumbing to hypothermia?”

            “You abandoned me in a snowstorm and you’re turning it into a matchmaking opportunity. My mum’s got nothing on you.”

            “Hang on, I thought you said he was gay?” Daisy’s voice turned recognizably “innocent” in the way it did when she knew she was winning an argument against you. “So how can I be matchmaking you when he’s not interested?”

            Jemma gritted her teeth. “I really hate you right now.”

            “Oh, come on, Eagle Two.” Now Daisy sounded positively cheery. “I’m just looking out for my best friend.”

            “So I’ve heard,” Jemma said dully, then opened her eyes and stood upright. “Look, I’m not going to ask a stranger to—” She froze. She blinked, but the picture through the window did not change. She suddenly wished she _had_ been succumbing to hypothermia, since the symptoms included wild hallucinations. Fitz was headed toward the pub door. Toward _her_.

            “—thought you wanted to get to know him better?” Daisy was asking. When Jemma didn’t respond, she said, “Fine, suit yourself. We’re almost home, though, so call me when you figure out your plans.” And then she hung up. Hung up! If Jemma weren’t currently calculating the time it would take to run around the pub corner and hide, she might have spared some brain energy to berate her _supposed_ best friend.

            Jemma took one step toward the corner of the building, received a face full of snow, and abandoned her flight. Turning back to face the pub door, she was perfectly positioned to greet Fitz as he pushed his way out.

* * *

 

            Daisy stashed her cell phone back in her pocket, unable to resist a grin. “She totally bought it.”

            Across from her, Henry was not so pleased. “Maybe you should consider acting,” he said, frowning. “You were frighteningly believable just then.”

            Lying was equally helpful in her current line of work, but she didn’t tell Henry that. Most of what S.H.I.E.L.D. actually did was kept secret from the Simmons family, despite how close Coulson and Mr. Simmons had become. Out loud, Daisy said, “Tell me, Henry, are you a betting man?”

            He raised his eyebrows as if to say, “What do you think?”

            “Fine. You’re no fun. But I’m guessing Arthur will take me up on it.”

            After a brief silence, Henry asked, “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, how do you know this will even work?”

            Daisy turned to watch the snow falling outside the cab window. “Call it an educated guess.”

            “Yes, but are you sure this is what she wants?” He was frowning again. Daisy could hear it in his voice this time. “I mean, maybe we should just let Jemma . . .”

            “Do things her way?” Daisy struggled to resist another private smile. She glanced back across at Henry. “Trust me. That’s the plan.”

* * *

 

            “Jemma?” Fitz thought for a second that the snow had conjured her directly from his thoughts. But, no, she was real, down to the snowflakes piling up in her hair and the flash of red on her cheeks from the cold.

            She smiled tentatively at him, blinking away snow from her eyes. “Here we are again,” she joked.

            He smiled, too. Why was he so happy to find her half-frozen and probably miserable thanks to yet another Scottish storm? Despite himself, the memory of her with fluff-dried hair and a Doctor Who sweater came into his mind. “You should really invest in an umbrella one of these days,” he said, trying to focus.

            She laughed. The more he heard it, the more he wanted to hear it again. “I thought I’d have more than forty-eight hours to do it.”

            He waved in the direction of the road. “Perhaps I should remind you that we’re in Perthshire. That’s in Scotland.”

            When he looked at her, she was still smiling—shyly, though, looking up through snow-strewn lashes. “I know where it is,” she said.

            His response time lagged yet again, faced as he was by her soft eyes. It wasn’t until a gust of wind blew snow into his face that he returned to the present: half a foot of snow and growing, winds picking up, and Jemma standing by herself at the side of the road. “Hang on. Where is everyone?”

            A shadow crossed her face—only for an instant, but Fitz noticed. “They appear to have forgotten me,” she said, her tone irritated, but beneath her annoyance, Fitz discerned a twinge of hurt.

            “Forgotten . . . you mean they’ve gone back to the cottage already?”

            “Essentially, yes.”

            “And are they coming back for you?”

            She laughed again, but this time it was dry and humorless. Not the sort that Fitz had hoped to provoke. “Not exactly.” She stared out at the road, where the wind lifted fresh snow and mixed it in with what was falling to make pinwheels of silver-white. “I have to wait a few hours for a taxi.”

            “A few _hours_?” Over the wind, Fitz genuinely thought he might’ve misheard her, until she looked forlornly in his direction and nodded. She was trying to put on a brave face, he noticed, but it was clear that this had disappointed her. As he surveyed the snow again, he thought, _Understandably so._

            Maybe the pints in his system had something to do with it, or maybe it was the sight of Jemma trying so hard to hide her discouragement. Either way, Fitz was dosed with a courage that he didn’t come by often. It prompted him to open his mouth and say, “Well, would you—would you like to stay at our flat instead? I’m sure my mum won’t mind.”

            As soon as he’d spoken, he cringed. “My mum won’t mind”? What was he, five? Those weren’t exactly the words he’d imagined saying when inviting a girl he . . . fancied . . . to stay over for the first time.

            Sure enough, Jemma wasn’t quite meeting his eyes, her gaze drifting down to the snow instead, which she scuffed with a boot. “Fitz, that’s . . . that’s really nice of you, but . . . I don’t want to impose . . .”

            “Yeah, of course not,” he said, and then realizing how that sounded, he added, “I mean, you wouldn’t be imposing, but of course you don’t want to stay over with us instead of your own family.”

            “Oh, it’s not that,” she said, and she actually took a step toward him, putting a hand on his elbow for the briefest of touches before dropping it hastily away. “It’s just that—well, you’ve already gone out of your way to help me once, and . . .” She still couldn’t look at him. “I don’t want to trouble you again.”

            “It’s no trouble,” Fitz said before he could really think about it. If only she knew how true that was. “Besides, the alternative is waiting here at the pub, and—” He glanced over a shoulder through the window, where Hunter, Bobbi, and Mack still clustered around the bar. “I don’t really fancy going back inside at the moment.”

            Jemma smiled. “ _You_ wouldn’t have to.”

            He shrugged and buried his hands in his coat pockets. Her voice had been teasing, but maybe she really was telling him to bugger off. It made sense, really. He’d been rude when they first met and even worse earlier today—and that’s assuming she might be interested even if he _weren’t_ a complete arse, which was a big assumption to make. Of course she didn’t want him waiting around like a sad puppy. He took a deep breath. “Well, uh, safe trip back to the cottage and all that. And watch for uneven ground under the snow on the drive.” He gave her a half-smile. “We really should’ve fixed that last summer.” He caught a brief glimpse of her face, still looking a bit disappointed at being stranded out here by her friends, and then he turned and began trudging into the wind.

            “Fitz, wait!” He stopped and was nearly blown back around to face her as she came stumbling out from under the awning. Her hair flew across her face in wild strands, sticking on her lips as she smiled. “On second thought, I could really use a warm cup of tea.”

* * *

 

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the drunken shenanigans were interrupted, but next chapter? SNOWY SLEEPOVER! And since we do have a wedding to celebrate at some point in this fic, fear not - drunken shenanigans will return!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS AT LAST. Thank you, patient lovely people, for the kindness of your reviews, comments, and kudos on the last chapter. 
> 
> I am so grateful for each and every reader, and for your patience, which deserves a medal of its own!
> 
> I'm so sorry that you had to wait so long for this one. At the risk of becoming "the girl who cried wolf," let me just say that with the holidays behind us and several RL things getting checked off my list, chapter seven won't take so long!
> 
> And now, without further commentary, chapter six . . .

* * *

            _This is fine_ , Fitz thought, digging in his pocket for keys. _I’m fine._ _It’s just a normal, everyday evening involving an impromptu sleepover with the most intelligent, attractive girl I’ve ever met._

_I’ll be fine._

            The flat door opened before he could get it unlocked. “Perfect timing,” said Catriona, and then her eyes slid past him to where Jemma stood. He winced.

            “Jemma!” Catriona blinked away her surprise. “How lovely to see you again, dear. Come in, come in.” Fitz’s stomach tightened as his mother ushered Jemma into the flat. The “look-what-we-have-here” glint in her eyes did not bode well for his “normal evening.”

            “Jemma’s friends left her at the Caledonian,” he explained before his mother could get any ideas. However, a glimpse of Jemma’s hurt expression made him regret his hasty words. “That is . . .”

            “Lucky for us, if it means we get her instead,” said Catriona.

            “Thank you,” said Jemma, her voice shy. “I hate to be a nuisance—”

            “Nonsense!” Catriona grinned. “'The more the merrier’ and all that. Besides, dear, you’ve made Fitz’s night. Will you be staying over?”

            Fitz gritted his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might stick that way. His mother blissfully ignored him, blinking at Jemma, whose curling wet hair may or may not have been hiding a blush. “Well . . . with the snow . . .”

            “Best not risk the trip home,” Catriona finished for her, sounding close to gleeful at the prospect of Jemma’s being stranded. “Yes, I quite agree. Now, can I get you a cup of tea?”

            As Jemma stowed her wet things and followed Catriona into their kitchen, Fitz lingered behind, feigning absorption in his bootlaces.

            It was going to be a long night.

* * *

            Jemma had not thought her day could get any more awkward. First, the science-meeting-turned-date-turned-disaster. Then, saying goodbye and ending up at the same pub. Oh yeah, and the part where her recent crush turned out to be interested in, well, _men_. That had been a highlight.

            And now, Fitz was stuck with her all night while his mother tried to set them up together.

            Catriona was a lovely person—cheery, generous, open-hearted, well-meaning. It was merely unfortunate that she didn’t seem to know about her son’s . . . preferences. And Jemma wouldn’t have minded that, either, except that each hint from Catriona reminded her of her own unrequited crush.

            It was all a bit much for one twenty-four-hour period.

            However, once a pot of tea had warmed her toes, Jemma was able to relax enough to carry on a semi-natural conversation. She sat at the kitchen table fielding questions from Catriona as Fitz helped his mum prepare their meal.

            “And do you like it up there?” Catriona asked about St Andrews, stirring a pot of soup on the stovetop.

            Jemma swallowed her last bit of tea, leaning back in her chair. This was always a difficult question, but she was well practiced in giving a convincing answer, since her mum asked her at least once a month. “Yeah, it’s fine. Great.”

            Catriona glanced up from the pot, her ever-present smile fading for the first time. Distant curiosity—and something else—creased her brow instead. “Is that so? What’s great about it?”

            Jemma shrugged. “The labs are nice. Not the best of the best, but perfectly adequate for what I do.”

            “Oh, well, if they’re ‘perfectly adequate,’ I can see why you like them so much.”

            Jemma realized she was being teased and laughed under her breath. At the same time, though, she cast her thoughts about in desperation. What else did people normally like about their work? “And my colleagues are very fun people who . . . frequently organize social events.”

            “Mmhmm.” Catriona turned back to the soup, but not before Jemma caught her raised eyebrow. “I take it they’ve yet to uncover your robot disguise?”

            Jemma blinked, but at Catriona’s cheeky grin, could only laugh again, and harder.

            “Just ignore her, Jemma,” said Fitz, sliding toasted cheese sandwiches from frying pan to plate. “I usually do.”

            Catriona flicked off the heat on the stove. “Now that’s the truth.” Fitz rolled his eyes as he passed, carrying the sandwiches to the table. Jemma couldn’t help but grin at the interaction, especially when Catriona turned and gave her a wink. “Oh, go on, she knows I’m only teasing.”

            A minute later, the soup had been ladled into bowls, individual sandwiches had been chosen, and conversation gave way to chewing in comfortable silence. Jemma’s eyes wandered around the kitchen as she ate, taking in pretty blue wallpaper and outdated appliances that, upon closer observation, appeared to have been “improved” with added technology. A row of hooks above the sink held mismatched teacups, while a small, gold-curtained window revealed still-falling snow. The flat was neither luxurious nor modern, but Jemma loved it all the same. She felt as she had upon entering the teashop for the first time: cozy, surrounded by objects that had been used and tended with care.

            “So,” said Catriona after a while, “shall we put on a movie after this? Or—” her eyes twinkled “—hot cocoa and a game of cards?”

            “Jemma’s probably tired, Mum. I’m sure she doesn’t—”

            “I’m not tired,” said Jemma.

            “Oh.” Fitz blinked at her. “Well, you don’t have to—”

            “Just ignore him, Jemma.” The humor in Catriona’s voice was unmistakable. “I usually do.”

            “Ha, ha,” said Fitz, his voice dry. In the direction of his mum, he muttered, “I only want to give her an out.”

            “No out required,” said Jemma, but he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Trust me. I love cards.”

            “And what is your position on Scrabble?” asked Catriona.

            Jemma grinned. “I love Scrabble even more.”

* * *

            “Sizzy . . .” Catriona bent her head over the Scrabble board. “Sizza-what now?”

            “Syzygy. It means—”

            “—the alignment of three celestial bodies.” Fitz was gazing down at the board, one eyebrow raised, his mouth lifting at the corners. “Good one.”

            Jemma bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

            “Yes, we definitely should’ve gone with cards.” Catriona stood from her armchair, collecting their empty cocoa mugs. “I’m going to need fortification for this trouncing. Anyone else for seconds?” She received two enthusiastic affirmatives.

            “And Mum?” Fitz called as she headed for the kitchen. She paused and glanced over her shoulder, waiting. “Er, extra marshmallows, please.” Catriona laughed, disappearing into the next room.

            A half-pleased, half-embarrassed look lingered on Fitz’s face as he turned back to the Scrabble board. His eyes scanned the letters, re-reading what they had played so far, which gave Jemma a chance to observe him. Most of the awkwardness from earlier had dissipated during their game, as evidenced by the now-tensionless set of Fitz’s shoulders. His eyes wandered to the floor less and his smile surfaced more. Jemma felt buoyed in return. Perhaps it was really possible for them to be friends and nothing more. No uncomfortable infatuation, no guilt for unrequited thoughts.

            Then Fitz’s eyes flicked up from the board, meeting hers, and her breath shortened.

            The phone rang, and they both jumped, glancing to the carpet.

            “I’ve got it,” called Catriona from the kitchen. They heard her murmured “Hello?” a moment later.

            Jemma struggled to think of a neutral conversation topic, something boring and mundane. She didn’t want to lose the tenuous grip on normal, platonic fun that they’d enjoyed for the past couple of hours. She cleared her throat. “Your mum’s great.”

            “Oh. Thank you. I mean, yeah, she is,” Fitz said, addressing a spot on the rug near Jemma’s foot.

            “You two seem to get on really well.”

            “Do we?” He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess you caught us on a good day.”

            Catriona’s voice, too low to make out the words, drifted in from the kitchen. “I wish I got on with my mother that well,” said Jemma.

            Fitz’s brows lowered. It wasn’t a frown, not exactly—more like the face of someone working out a tough problem. “What’s wrong with her?”

            Jemma regretted her truthfulness, even if it had saved them from more awkward silence. She shifted in her seat. “Oh. Well, nothing’s _wrong_ with her, it’s just . . .” She shrugged.

            “Too bossy?”

            “No,” said Jemma. “I mean, yes, she can be that. But . . .” She hesitated. “Remember your mum asking me all those questions about St Andrews?”

            Fitz nodded, his look concentrated and intense, as if he really cared to hear Jemma’s answer. Her pulse picked up and she didn’t quite know why. _Embarrassment_ , she told herself firmly. _Nothing more_.

            “Well, my mum asks me all the same questions at least once a month. Once a _week_ , if I’m honest. And yet . . .” Jemma took a deep breath. “Your mum saw through me to the real answers in thirty seconds. Mine never does.”

            Fitz watched her, unblinking. She’d gone too far, she knew it. He didn’t care about her stupid, privileged problems, and who could blame him? She should be counting herself lucky for what she had. But then he said, “Maybe you should stop giving her fake answers, then.”

            Jemma stared. She opened her mouth, closed it again. He was right, of course, and yet his tone held neither accusation nor critique. He’d given her a suggestion, gentle yet honest. He’d . . . listened. “You’re right,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

            Before he could reply, Catriona returned. She crossed the room and sank into her seat, the wireless phone still in her hands. Jemma’s eyes flicked to her face and froze there. She was pale, her eyes unfocused. Where before her lips had dimpled with laugh lines, they now appeared flat and thin. It was like she had aged ten years in five minutes.

            “Mum?”

            “Oh, the cocoa,” said Catriona, half-rising from her chair.

            “Never mind, we’ll get it later,” said Fitz, putting a hand on her arm. She sank back into her seat. “What’s wrong?”

            “The . . .” Catriona cleared her throat. Her eyes focused on her son. “The barrister called from Glasgow. He needs me to . . . to go down tomorrow . . .”

            Fitz’s fingers tightened on Catriona’s arm for a flash of a second. A riot of emotion—fear, pain, surprise—spasmed across his face before his features went blank. “For what? For a routine meeting?” His voice cracked on the word “routine.”

            Catriona left the phone in her lap, leaning forward to cover her face with her hands. Her fingers were trembling. Jemma longed to offer what help she could, but something in the heavy silence kept her mute and unmoving.

            After several long moments, Catriona sat up, taking a deep breath. She straightened her shoulders. “For an identification.”

            Jemma puzzled out this news as her eyes shifted to Fitz. Identification? As in, identification of a _body?_ Surely not . . . but then . . . judging by Catriona’s reaction, the phone call had been something very serious. Perhaps serious enough to involve . . . _that_. Fitz, on the contrary, revealed only a twitch of his tightening jaw.

            “I just hope the trains will be running,” Catriona continued, her gaze sliding past her son to the windows. The streetlight beyond illuminated a curtain of drifting snow. “I’d hate to lose . . . lose a day . . .”

            Fitz jumped up from his chair. Catriona stared up at him in surprise. “I’ll pack a bag,” he said, clenching his fists at his sides. “I’m coming with you.”

            “No, Fitz, you don’t—”

            But before Catriona could finish speaking, Fitz had turned on his heels and disappeared down the hall. Jemma stared at the space he left behind, blinking. A few seconds later, she heard the sound of a door shutting. Then, into the quiet, a crash.

            Catriona flinched. When Jemma risked a glance at her, she wore a sad smile. “I could have delivered that better, I suppose,” she whispered. “I just wasn’t expecting . . .”

            Several answers sprung to mind— _of course not, don’t be silly, I’m sorry, can I help?_ —but each sounded trite and shallow in Jemma’s head. She fought against the feeling of wrongness that had settled over the room. After a while she said, “I’ll get out of your way—”

            “No,” said Catriona, her voice firm now, though her face remained lined and sad. “Please stay.”

            Again, none of Jemma’s possible responses seemed to fit. “Is there . . . is there anything I can do?” she asked at last.

            Catriona sighed. She picked up the phone between her hands, staring at it, and then, as if coming to a decision, she stood. “I think I’ll start with the washing up,” she said. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”

            “Not at all.” Jemma struggled to keep surprise and confusion out of her voice. Whatever was happening, she felt for Fitz and Catriona and wanted to be of use where she could. Privately she thought the last thing Catriona—or Fitz—could want was a stranger hanging around their flat tonight. Then again, she’d been starting to think she wasn’t a stranger, but a friend.

            _And friends help each other_ , she thought. _If they can._

She remembered the way Fitz had listened to her, _really_ listened, when she was talking about her mum not five minutes earlier.

Yes, she would stay, for as long as they wanted her.

            The washing up didn’t take long. Catriona and Jemma worked in efficient silence. Once the last plate had been put away, Catriona filled the kettle and began to fix a pot of chamomile tea. Jemma hovered near the kitchen counter, unsure, until the tea was steeping and Catriona invited her to sit.

            Once at the table, Catriona poured for them and regarded Jemma over their steaming mugs. “You’re having a very strange day,” she said with half a smile.

            Jemma’s mouth may have dropped open a bit. She was unable to stop it in time. Catriona, watching her, laughed under her breath.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. She shook her head, staring into her tea, and her smile faded. “That was unfair. You’re probably wishing you left after all.”

            “No, I’m just . . . I feel helpless,” said Jemma, honesty propelling her forward. “You’ve been so nice to me, you and Fitz both. I wish I could return the favor somehow.”

            Catriona sipped her tea. Her eyes looked thoughtful now. “This hasn’t happened for a while now,” she said. Then, abruptly: “Have you heard the term ‘death in absentia’?”

            Foreboding twisted Jemma’s throat. “Yes. It’s a legal term, isn’t it?”

            Catriona nodded. She spoke into her tea, reminding Jemma forcibly of Fitz. “When someone disappears, at least in Scotland, they can be declared legally dead after seven years.” Her eyes met Jemma’s again. “Has Fitz mentioned his father to you at all?”

            In lieu of responding, she shook her head. She sensed what was coming and fought back the guilt-ridden realization that she was curious to hear more. Of course it had crossed her mind, the reason why Fitz’s father was absent and never mentioned. But she’d thought Fitz might tell her, in time.

            “He doesn’t talk about Leopold much. Not even with me.” Catriona sighed. “He disappeared when Fitz was nine. Ate breakfast with us, drove to work, like it was a normal day. Never showed up. They found his car two days later, abandoned at the roadside.” Catriona’s voice was steady and firm, but her hand was shaking again as she took another sip of tea. “They couldn’t find anything,” she said after a while. “No signs of a struggle. He was just . . . gone.”

            Jemma put a hand on Catriona’s arm, showing her support in the only way she knew how. Catriona gave her a grateful smile. “Anyway.” Her voice was more present now, less reminiscent. Jemma dropped her hand. “It was tough going for a while, but Fitz . . . well, we managed. I hired the barrister when it became real that Leopold wasn’t coming back.” Catriona rolled her mug back and forth between her palms. “We waited seven years. We got the . . . the death certificate.” She took a steadying breath. “But then we owned the cottage again, let it in summer, paid off some debts. I opened this place.” She looked down past the table to the floor, beneath which the teashop lay quiet and empty. “Leo started at MIT.”

            Hearing “Leo” in that moment was strange, jarring. Jemma took a moment to understand that Catriona was talking about Fitz. Of course she was talking about Fitz. His father was named Leopold—he was named after his father. But he asked to be called Fitz.

            Jemma’s breath caught. _Oh, Fitz._

            “—got the first call like this,” Catriona was saying when Jemma tuned back in. “Unidentified body at the morgue in Glasgow, matching Leopold’s description. Leo—that is, Fitz—was still in Massachusetts at the time.” Catriona’s face became old and drawn, as it had after the phone call. “It was hard, digging up those old ghosts.”

            Jemma waited, her heartbeat the only sound in her ears for a long time. Catriona sipped her tea, but still, she didn’t speak. After a time, Jemma ventured, “So they asked you to come identify the body?”

            “It wasn’t Leopold. It never is. But Fitz came home anyway.” Her sad smile was back. “He worries. And just when I thought we’d landed on our feet . . .”

            “They called again.” Jemma frowned at the tea in front of her. The words sounded stupid now that she’d spoken them aloud, but Catriona nodded. No wonder Fitz was upset. After eleven years of not knowing, the body of his father might be lying in a morgue in Glasgow. Or worse, he could get all the way there and find out that it’s someone else. It had happened before, and it could happen again, and again, until . . . Jemma’s heart ached as if being squeezed by the sharpness of her lungs. “Catriona,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

            Catriona’s grateful smile reappeared, albeit briefly. “Thank you, dear.” She reached out, gave Jemma’s hand a squeeze, and then returned her fingers to her mug of tea. “It’s Fitz I worry about most,” she said. “I want him to live his life, to be happy . . . not to be . . .” She sighed. “Well. I want him to talk to me, for a start.”

            Jemma chewed her lip. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a silent Fitz. If anything, it was a secret relief to discover that even Catriona had trouble communicating with him. She felt immediately selfish for thinking such a thing, but it gave her to the courage to ask, “Do you . . . do you think he’d mind if I went back there?”

            Catriona took another draught of tea, looking thoughtful. “Certainly not. But . . .” It was evident after another long silence that she wasn’t planning on finishing that sentence.

            Jemma pushed her chair back but stopped herself before standing up. Her thoughts were drawn to Fitz, but she was hesitant to abandon Catriona, who had just placed a lot of trust in her. “Catriona, I—”

            “Go, go, please.” Catriona waved her away with a smile. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

            Jemma didn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

            Fitz discovered that the throb in his knuckles got worse as his rational thinking got better. Incidentally, so did his embarrassment when he remembered Jemma sitting down the hall. It was enough to want the anger back.

            He kicked his feet, knocking them clear from the pile of books he’d just punched out of his bookcase. (The bookcase, of course, had sustained no damage.) A second later, he slid to the floor and began picking them up.

            The repetitious action allowed him to organize his thoughts as well. He’d gotten much better, lately, at containing these bursts of emotion. He hadn’t broken a lamp since a MIT. But all it took was one phone call from Glasgow to shatter his nerves. His fingers clenched around the spine of an old textbook, but after a time, he let out his breath and set it safely on the shelf. He could manage.

            The last book was back in place when a gentle knock sounded at his door. Fitz stood in a hurry, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah?”

            “Mind if I come in?”

Jemma’s voice. _Jemma’s voice_. Perhaps he had lost his temper again and gone delusional. Surely she wasn’t still here. Not after . . . He crossed to the door and cracked it open.

            Soft brown eyes looked back.

            “Oh. Hi. I mean, yes.” Fitz backed into the room, holding the door open as she stepped inside. Barely had he managed to shut it behind her than the panic set in.

            She was here. _In his room_. His gut reaction of nerves and insecurity, uncomfortable as it was, made for a safe, familiar feeling, and he clung to it. One problem at a time, after all.

            Problem number one: Jemma Simmons was in his room and he hadn’t cleaned for a week.

            “Uh—sorry,” he said, lunging toward the bed. She waited as he swept a space free of laundry so she could sit. To his horror, there were some boxers mixed in with the fresh socks and t-shirts. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. “It’s all clean, I promise,” he said just in case.

            Problem number two: he was an embarrassing human being who probably should have stayed locked in his room in the first place.

            But Jemma smiled as she sat atop the mattress, tucking one foot up beneath her opposite leg. “Thanks,” she said.

            “No problem.” He hesitated, but guessed that he would only embarrass himself further if he sat beside her on the bed. Instead, he swiveled over his desk chair and sat facing her, fingers tapping on its arms.

            “Is that where you work?” she asked, pointing. He followed the line of her finger to his desk—or what he knew to be his desk, buried as it was beneath a pile of gadgetry and electronics.

            “Er. Yeah. It’s usually more organized than that,” he lied.

            “I understand,” said Jemma, a playful lift in her voice. “I’d need at least a week to clean my lab before giving you a tour.”

            From what Fitz had seen of her notebook—and her personality—he strongly doubted that was true. But he didn’t have the heart to contradict her. She was leaning forward ever-so-slightly, her eyes both sympathetic and smiling. Beneath the humor in her expression, there was a note of seriousness, and Fitz knew without needing to hear it that she had forgiven him for his earlier abrupt departure. He couldn’t explain the connection. He simply looked at her and understood.

            His fingers stilled on the arms of his chair as he settled into its back. The tension in his gut relaxed. He drew in a shaky breath and said, “Jemma . . .”

            She raised her eyebrows, expectant, waiting.

            “I’m . . .”

            Emotions crowded his mind again, just as he’d let his guard down. _Say sorry_ , part of him thought. _Explain everything_ , thought another. _Tell her, or else she won’t like you._ _She’ll leave—_

Jemma reached out, covering his hands with her own on the arms of the chair. She slid her fingers between his, small and delicate, filling all the spaces. His breath snagged when he met her eyes and found compete openness and trust. “It’s all right, Fitz,” she said. “You don’t have to explain.”

            He let out his breath. He found himself squeezing her hands in his without really meaning to, without his brain telling his fingers to act. “Thank you,” he said.

            She smiled.

            After a few minutes of silence, a delicate conversation began about her lab at St Andrews. Somewhere in that time, her fingers ended up back in her lap, and Fitz’s in his. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands under them, warming palms that felt cold without hers.

            At least his knuckles were no longer throbbing.

* * *

            About an hour and several meandering conversation topics later, a companionable silence fell between Jemma and Fitz. Unlike earlier, however, Jemma felt no fear of the quiet that settled between them. Over the course of the rocky evening, something between them had shifted, and they each understood one another better now. She hoped.

            Fitz cleared his throat. “I should . . . I should have a chat with my mum before she goes to sleep. Could I bring you back a cup of tea?”

            “I’d love one.” Jemma privately observed that “drinking far too much tea” could be added to the list of things that she and Fitz had in common. He started to stand, but she stopped him. “Oh—and—Fitz?”

            “Yes?”

            “Could I borrow something to sleep in?” She waved a hand, encompassing her button-up, cardigan, and skinny jeans in the gesture. “Something more . . .”

            “Oh!” Was that embarrassment she heard in his voice? “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He indicated a chest of drawers in the far corner, opposite his desk. “Second drawer from the bottom. Help yourself.”

            “Thanks.” She smiled, hoping to reassure him, but his responding look was shy before he disappeared out the door.

            So much for understanding each other better.

            Jemma got up to find some sleepwear, puzzling over the expression Fitz had worn as he departed. Was it just the overhead light, or had there been the hint of a blush rising to his cheeks? But why should he be blushing? Unless . . . Jemma closed her eyes in mortification. Unless he thought she was flirting with him again.

            He must’ve been aware of her crush all along. He’d probably been waiting for the opportune moment to “let her down gently,” but over the course of the tumultuous evening, that moment had never come. Now what did he think? That she was “slipping into something more comfortable” on purpose to . . . to seduce him?!

            Jemma sat back down on the mattress. How could she have allowed this to happen? Their whole heart-to-heart-without-speaking thing had made her forget their earlier miscommunications.

Obviously she had to do something to let Fitz know that _she_ knew he was not interested in her.

            Her brain went to the familiar territory of the scientific method. Observation: Fitz was immensely relieved and enthusiastic to discover that Dev and Arthur were gay. Hypothesis #1: Fitz is also gay, but too shy/anxious/insecure to discuss it with Jemma (or perhaps anyone). Hypothesis #2: Fitz realizes she’s attracted to him and wants to let her down easy but doesn’t know how.

            Jemma fell back on the mattress, staring at the overhead light until it blinded her and she had to close her eyes.

            After a few moments, an idea came to her. Simple. Effective. Her plan would demonstrate to Fitz that she considered him a friend, nothing more, thereby eliminating her need for Hypothesis #2. At the same time, it would function as a test of Hypothesis #1.

            Now it was just a matter of execution.

* * *

            “Sorry that took so long,” Fitz said when Jemma answered his tap on the bedroom door. He raised the mugs of tea in his hands in greeting.

            “Not a problem,” she said, smiling and letting him in. “Is everything okay?”

            “Yeah. Much better now.” He crossed the room to nestle their tea between gears and chipboards on his desk. “Thanks for waiting.”

            “I got a bit distracted, actually, so I still haven’t changed.”

            Fitz turned around to face her. “Oh. Right. Er—”

            “Are these okay?” She held up a gray t-shirt and a pair of red flannel pajama bottoms.

            “Um—yeah. Fine.” Why had his voice suddenly gone a bit a hoarse? “I’ll just—” He started for the door.

            “Oh, you don’t have to leave,” she said, kicking the bedroom door shut with one foot. “I’ll just change over there.” She indicated his closet with a lift of her chin, then gave him an innocent smile. “You don’t mind, right?”

            Now his words came out at the wrong pitch, and a bit strangled, too. “N—no. Mind? No, not at all. I’ll just . . . turn around . . . like this . . .” He stared at her, his rebellious legs choosing not to move despite his best intentions. She was still grinning as she walked to the closet, pulling the door half-shut to create a barrier that was entirely too insubstantial for Fitz’s brain. And his jeans.

            He whirled around to face the wall so quickly that his leg bumped his desk. Fortunately, none of their tea spilled, but at that moment, he wouldn’t have minded. It was difficult to think about anything except the glimpse he’d just seen of Jemma peeling off her cardigan. Her button-down shirt had stuck to her jumper just enough to ride up, revealing an inch of her milky-white midriff.

            “This shirt is really soft,” she said, her voice muffled as if she were pulling his t-shirt over her head. Fitz closed his eyes, which did nothing to block out that rather vivid mental image. “I might have to steal it.”

            Words. Words would block out the little ruffling sounds of Jemma taking off her clothes ten feet away. “It’s—it’s jersey,” he said, his mouth moving without waiting to receive instructions from his brain. “Made from a combination of wool, cotton, and synthetic fibers.” He winced. That response caused him actual, _physical_ pain. But considering what else he could have said without meaning to, it was probably his best option at the time.

            There was a long silence. Then: “Of course. I should have known.” Was that—disappointment in her voice? Because his shirt was made of jersey knit? Surely he was hearing things. If ever his senses would fail him, it would be in a situation like this one.

            “All finished,” said Jemma, and innocent tone was back in her voice, masking whatever had come before. Fitz closed his eyes again, counting down from three before turning around.

            When he opened his eyes, his breath caught, as it had when she’d come down the stairs in a Doctor Who sweater. There was something utterly beguiling about seeing her in pajamas, he thought, then bit his lip so he wouldn’t say such an embarrassing sentence out loud. The way her hair fell softly around her face, maybe, or the warm, contented shade to her smile. Or perhaps it was the idea he loved—the idea of staying up all night on the couch with her, marathoning Battlestar Galactica, or even—even of waking up next to her in the morning to brush some of that hair out of her eyes.

            He cleared his throat. “Mum’s set up blankets and stuff on the couch,” he heard himself say. Her eyes were on the carpet, her clothes hugged close to her chest. “But if you’d prefer a bed—”

            She shook her head. “I’d hate to run you out of your own room,” she said in a quiet voice. “The couch is fine.”

            Silence. “Right. Well. Then. I left out a spare toothbrush . . .”

            She glanced up, smiled, looked away. Pulled her clothes closer. “Thank you.” She may be avoiding his gaze, but her voice was warm, genuine. “I mean it. For everything.”

            There was a strangeness in the room now, an awkwardness to her stance that Fitz couldn’t quite place. Had he been creepy? Gross, for not leaving the room? Probably, he thought, but then why had she asked him to stay? “It’s no problem,” he said. “In fact . . . I’m glad you were here.”

            She smiled one more time, directing it to the carpet at his feet, and then crept out the bedroom door, shutting it behind her with soft _click_. Fitz stared at the space she had occupied for several long minutes before getting ready for bed himself. Not that he felt tired.

            It was going to be a long night.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Fitz. This chapter was so difficult to write because I hate making you sad. But things will perk up going forward . . . Every rom-com has its angsty moments to earn its abundance of happy. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"At Last" playing in the background*
> 
> Yes . . . it's here! First off, I'm sooooo sorry to all my loyal readers for the wait. I. Am. Horrible. Secondly: thank you everyone SO MUCH for commenting and leaving kudos and just generally reading this fic and being awesome. Each comment and notification or kind word I heard about it made me more determined to get back and finish it. I realize I still took a long time, but I swear! It's because of you that I kept going!!! So, thank you. :D 
> 
> Thirdly, I know this chapter is a bit short, but I've decided to start weekly updates AT THE LEAST. So, you can expect chapter 8 by next Saturday at the very latest, and I promise, it will be longer than this. ;) I hope you enjoy!

* * *

            Jemma woke at the touch of dawn’s murky gray fingers. Fumbling in the semi-darkness, she found her phone on the floor beside the sofa.

            7:30 AM.

            Judging by the darkness and silence of the flat, Jemma had expected an earlier time. But the sun rose late in Scotland in December. She kept forgetting that.

            The sofa’s old springs groaned beneath her as she turned and pushed herself up to sitting. A good stretch revealed that her neck and shoulders were stiff from her cramped night’s sleep, though she would die before admitting that to Fitz or Catriona.

            Fitz. Her thoughts kept returning to his name as if prodding a loose tooth. She couldn’t help but linger over her memories of the previous evening, despite the fact that several of them made her cringe. She should never have imposed upon Fitz and Catriona in the first place. She should never have let herself care about him even more. She should never have tested his limits by that whole “changing into pajamas” charade. Because all she had succeeded in doing was embarrassing herself further.

            And hurting herself, too. The cold, dimly lit drawing room seemed an appropriate place to admit that. For Fitz was unlike any person she’d ever met. She had begun long ago to believe that no such person could possibly exist. And here he was as if formed from the clay of her imagination, tidily wrapped and presented in the form of a . . . good friend.

            A flash of guilt struck her, not for the first time since she’d curled up on the sofa the night before. After everything she’d heard about what Fitz was going through, _she_ had the nerve to feel bad for herself?

            Why couldn’t she just be happy with what she had?

            Jemma stood and began to tidy the blankets Catriona had laid out the night before, making a careful stack at the foot of her makeshift bed. That finished, she collected her clothing from the night before and shimmied into it, shivering as gooseflesh blossomed on her arms and legs in the freezing room. A quick trip to the loo allowed her to brush her teeth and make do with her unwashed hair.

            She blinked at herself in the bathroom mirror, wiping away the smudges of yesterday’s makeup from under her eyes. It would be easy for her to sneak off now. She could leave a note on the kitchen counter, thanking them. She’d make her way back to the cottage, where she could shower, change her clothes. Start over.

            Her eyes fell away from the mirror.

            It would be easier that way.

            Several minutes later, Jemma was only halfway through her note when Catriona came into the kitchen.

            “Jemma? Goodness, you gave me a fright.” She clutched a hand to her chest over a velvety dressing gown.

            “Sorry.” Jemma crumpled her note and shoved it into her pocket, but not quickly enough. Catriona’s hand dropped, and her fear gave way to a concerned frown.

            “You’re up early,” she observed, a casual tone masking her deeper insinuation. “And dressed, too.”

            “I figured I should get going,” Jemma admitted, not quite able to meet Catriona’s eyes. The concept of leaving a note had seemed much better when she hadn’t had to see the reaction it would produce. “You two have . . . loads to do . . .”

            “Nonsense.” Catriona’s tone was gentle but firm, not unlike her grip as she took Jemma by the elbow and physically led her to the kitchen table. Jemma blinked, finding herself seated before she could react to fight the movement. “It’s two feet of snow outside and dark. I’ll make us a nice bit of a breakfast, spot of tea—and don’t you dare think of leaving on your own.”

            “But I couldn’t ask you to—”

            “I have a plan. Don’t you worry.”

            Jemma snapped her lips shut as Catriona bustled about the kitchen. She moved with quick precision, glancing over at Jemma every so often with her eyebrows raised in an amused expression. By the time breakfast was ready, Jemma felt very guilty indeed.

            “Don’t go looking like that,” said Catriona as she served the scrambled eggs. “I fully expected you to try sneaking off. This _is_ the same girl who refused a lift in Scotland in December.”

            “I don’t like to be troublesome to other people,” said Jemma in her own defense.

            “And as a result you take all the trouble on yourself instead.” Though Catriona’s sympathetic smile removed all the bite from her words, Jemma found them entirely too real to be responded to, so she dug into her eggs and toast in silence. Catriona relieved her of any discomfort by adding, “Now, I must wake up that son of mine of we’ll be sitting here all day.”

            She hurried off to complete this task. A few seconds later, Jemma heard Fitz’s sleep-slurred murmuring and was forced to admonish herself because it made her smile. So much for starting over.

            Fitz did not appear until after Jemma had finished eating. He shambled to a spot beside her at the table, rubbing his eyes, which was fortunate, for it meant he did not catch Jemma’s irrepressible grin at his appearance. Rumpled curls, wrinkled jumper, a pair of well-worn flannels with rips at the cuffs—he was the picture of sleep-deprived discontentment. One look and Jemma’s traitorous imagination leapt to cuddles and warm beds. She bit her lip, managing to wrangle her expression to blankness just in time as Fitz’s hands dropped from his eyes.

            His sleepy look leapt to alertness when he spotted her. “Oh. Jemma. Hi. I mean, good morning.” He glanced down at himself, then crossed his arms awkwardly as if to block his knitted jumper from view. From its slightly-too-short sleeves and the hole near his collar, it looked like a homemade holdover from Fitz’s younger days, and was therefore—though he’d never agree—wholly endearing.

            “Good morning, Fitz,” Jemma said, her heart sliding down to the region of her stomach. Of course he would wake up like a grumpy teddy bear-turned-human, an adorable walking reminder of how very un-platonic her thoughts tended to turn. She glanced away from him—anywhere but at him—to find Catriona, eyes flicking between them both. Jemma’s cheeks grew warm. “Your mum was just telling me her plan for getting me home.”

            Which was a blatant lie, of course, but if Catriona blinked once or twice, she did not otherwise reveal her surprise. “That’s right,” she said after a moment, her amused smile never wavering. “I’m going to give Mack a ring. He’s got a lorry at his shop, hasn’t he, Fitz?”

            Fitz nodded, unable to speak due to the large bite of toast and marmalade in his mouth. He glanced guiltily at Jemma and swallowed. “For towing, yeah, but I reckon it would be good in the snow.”

            “I’ll phone him now, then, shall I?" said Catriona. "He can take Jemma first and come back for us in time for the noon train.”

            A strange look came over Fitz’s face midway through his second bite. He looked almost—scared?—as the blood drained from his cheeks. “Mm not sure that—” he began through his mouthful of food.

            “Manners, Leo,” Catriona said, effectively silencing his argument.

            Strange as this was, Jemma, too, felt the need to speak up. “I should hate to—”

            “I’ve one word for you, Jemma,” interrupted Catriona again as she stood up from the table. “Trouble.” She patted Jemma on the shoulder. “Now just you let me handle this.”

* * *

            Fitz hovered at the back of the hall as Jemma prepared to leave.

            “Got everything? Handbag? Coat?” he heard his mother asking. Jemma nodded, deliberately not looking his way, and for good reason. After last night, she probably thought he was a pervert. A pervert with a bad temper. A bad-tempered pervert with abandonment issues.

            Oh, and terrible table manners. That was from this morning, but still.

            She had most likely been counting down the minutes before she could get away, and for good reason. But there was one thing he had not been able to figure out, despite tossing and turning and sleeping on it. _Why_ had she told him to stay in the room while she changed? He’d offered to leave—even begun to do so—but it had been _her idea—_

            “Hey, Fitz.” Mack’s even tones interrupted him from his reverie. Fitz glanced to the end of the hall to find Mack’s bulk filling their doorway.

            “Morning, Mack.” As hard as he tried to hide it, some of the moroseness of his thoughts slipped into his voice. Mack noticed, Fitz was certain, because his eyebrows dropped low. “Thanks for, you know, doing this.”

            “Yes, thank you for rescuing me,” Jemma said, a smile on her face as she stepped up to the door. She turned to Catriona, angling her shoulders just enough to include Fitz in her next statement without meeting his eyes. “And thank _you_ for rescuing me last night. I have no idea what I would have done without you.”

            “It was our pleasure,” said Catriona, pulling Jemma into a quick hug. From his position behind them, Fitz could see the expression on Jemma’s face—surprised, but then slipping into a genuine smile as she embraced Catriona in return. Something about that interaction gave him a hot burn of pain in his throat. He glanced at his shoes.

            “Right,” said Jemma, stepping back after a few seconds. “Um, thank you, Fitz. Good . . . good luck with everything.” She didn’t even come over to shake his hand. A hug was clearly out of the question, he knew, but . . . still . . . ‘Good luck with everything?’ God, he must have really bolloxed things up.

            “Yeah,” he said, his voice faint. “You too.”

            Mack stepped away from the door to let Jemma down to the lorry first. As she brushed past him, Mack’s eyes jumped from her to Fitz, his brow even more furrowed than before.

            Fitz shook his head quickly, hoping to convey _I’ll tell you later_ in as succinct a fashion as he could.

            It worked, for Mack shrugged and said goodbye to Catriona before heading off toward his truck. Fitz stepped forward to watch them depart, enduring the cold air for a glimpse of Jemma as she climbed into place, but what he saw in the front seat made his veins freeze for an entirely different reason.

            Hunter was sitting in the middle of the front compartment.

            Fitz groaned, rubbing his temples as Mack took his seat and shifted into gear.

            “What is it?” asked Catriona, stepping forward to catch a glimpse of the truck. “Did he get stuck?”

            But they were already taking off without a hitch—contrary to Fitz’s sudden desire. _Please, a snow bank, an ice patch, anything_ , he found himself thinking. Anything to prevent a journey that would involve uninterrupted, ungoverned conversation between Hunter and Jemma for more than thirty seconds.

            Because that could never end well.

* * *

            “So, tell me, Jemma. Are there any lads in your life?”

            “Sorry?” Jemma turned to Hunter in surprise. They’d barely pulled out of Fitz’s drive, and _this_ was the first thing he asked her? She felt sure she’d misheard him.

            “Lads. You know. Blokes, chaps, fellows.” He emphasized each word with aplomb. “A Baldwin. A thoroughbred. I could go on.”  
            “You could try,” said Mack from the driver’s seat, his tone an impending threat.

            Jemma laughed nervously, because she felt he _must_ be making a joke—mustn’t he? “Erm, no. At the moment, the only lads in my life are my obnoxious brothers.”

            “Brothers. Of course. Excellent.”

            Hunter fell silent as Mack negotiated a corner. Jemma stared out the window, telling herself that her cheeks were only warm from the lorry’s effective heating.

            “We’re Fitz’s best friends, you know,” Hunter said out of nowhere a moment later. Jemma turned to him, only to catch Mack glancing the same way, eyebrows raised. “What? We are! Granted, he only speaks to us sometimes, and only to me when forced, but—still.” He turned to Jemma, his face unreadable. “We take his interests very keenly to heart.”

            “As any good friend would,” she said, careful to keep her tone even. It was becoming more and more evident that Hunter thought she had some kind of— _designs_ on Fitz. Which meant that he had no idea where Fitz’s true preference lay. Which meant . . . Jemma was going to have to negotiate this whole conversation without outing Fitz to his best friend (plus Hunter, whose allegiance was still somewhat questionable). She glanced out the window again, hoping against hope that the truck would start going faster. “Fitz is a wonderful person,” she said, her voice quiet.

            “That he is,” Mack agreed with startling force. Jemma looked across Hunter at him, surprised to find the fierceness of his tone matched in his expression.

            “Well, no one’s arguing that,” said Hunter in exasperation. “What I’m trying to find out is whether Jemma would shag him or not.”

            “Hunter . . .” growled Mack, his intense expression suddenly making sense.

            “What?” Hunter spoke low, as if Jemma weren’t sitting a few inches from him in the cramped front section of the lorry. For a moment, she contemplated opening the door and flinging herself out into the welcoming, pillowy snow. The silence that reigned over the car at that moment gave her ample time to imagine how comforting such an escape would be. She watched the world of white going by outside and wondered what she could possibly say in response to Hunter’s comment—other than “I don’t think Fitz is interested.”

            But maybe that was the perfect solution.

            “I don’t think Fitz is interested,” she said, her voice coming out a bit squeakier than she intended, but still audible enough over the crunch of tires on snow.

            “There. See? Told you she would—hang on.” Hunter turned to her, his smug smile creasing into a frown. “What did you just say?”

            “Fitz is a great _friend_ ,” she said, careful to enunciate her words. “I don’t think he’s interested in me like that.” She glanced past Hunter, her face burning, and indicated the controls for the heat. “Mind if I turn this down?” she asked Mack.

            “I’m just sorry there’s not a button for him,” said Mack, flicking his head toward Hunter.

            “Oy! Sitting right here, mate! And it’s a good thing, too.” He shook his head at Jemma. “Honestly, you lot would be lost without me.”

            “I hardly know you,” Jemma pointed out, somewhat lost at how to deal with such a stubbornly difficult person. “And it seems to me as if you hardly know Fitz.”

            Hunter sputtered, seeming to find that words could not do justice to his outrage. After a while, he simply turned to Mack and said, “Did you hear that?”

            “She’s right.”

            Jemma tried to fight back a smile as Hunter’s mouth fell open. “But—hang on—she’s known him _two days_!”

            “I’m not saying I know him any better,” Jemma hurried to add, though privately she felt this was not true. There _was_ some kind of connection between Fitz and her. She had felt it when they were playing Scrabble, meeting eyes over hot cocoa. She’d felt it again when they were sitting in roaring silence in his bedroom, her fingers twined in his.

            That sense of _rightness_ was exactly why she needed to stay away from him for a while.

            She shifted in her seat, moving closer to the window. The cold leaking in from outside brushed its soothing touch against her forehead.

            “Last time I ever do something nice,” muttered Hunter from the middle seat. “No good deed goes unpunished, and all that.”

            “Do you want me to leave you at home next time?”

            “With another living reminder of my failed good deeds? No, thank you. I’ll leave the hellcat housewife for another—”

            “ ‘Cause I can turn this truck around.”

            “Right. Shutting up now.”

            Mack’s intervention bought Jemma blissful silence for the rest of the drive, but her thoughts were in turmoil. She barely noticed the beauty of the snow-blanketed countryside out her window. All she wanted was a shower and a distraction—but she was starting to think there was no distraction strong enough to keep her mind from Leo Fitz.

            At last, they pulled up to the cottage, Jemma jerking to alertness when Mack tugged the emergency brake into place.

            “Thank you,” said told him, speaking over Hunter once again.

            “I’ll walk you to the door,” said Mack.

            “Oh, you don’t have to—”

            “It’s no problem.” His voice brooked no protest, so Jemma meekly began to climb out of the truck. She heard Mack add, “You—don’t move.”

            “Yes, sir,” came Hunter’s mocking reply.

            When they were a good distance away from the lorry and still a few steps from the door, Mack shot out a hand that stopped Jemma in her tracks. When she looked up—way up—at him, she caught him frowning again, but this time with thoughtful concern.

            “I’m not getting involved,” he said, “but Fitz is a good guy. You should give him another chance.”

            Jemma twisted her hands together, wondering how best to explain the problem without giving Fitz’s secret away. That was for him to tell. But . . . if Mack was his best friend . . . wouldn’t he of all people suspect the truth? After all, it wasn’t the same as outing Fitz to his mum. Perhaps she could merely _hint_ at it. She cleared her throat. “Um. It’s not that I don’t . . . like . . . Fitz. It’s that I don’t think he’s _interested_ in—”

            “Fitz is not exactly Casanova,” said Mack. “He’s going to need a little time.”

            “I don’t think _time_ is the problem,” said Jemma, valiantly trying again. “But . . . rather . . . Fitz’s _preferences_ —”

            Mack had opened his mouth to interrupt her a second time, but he closed it, his brow wrinkling. He stared at her for several long seconds. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked at last.

            Jemma swallowed the knot that had formed in her esophagus and nodded. “I think . . . yes. I am.”

            Mack blinked at her. He rubbed a hand on his jaw. His fingers slipped up to cover his mouth as he glanced down at the snow in—what? Consternation? Shock? Disapproval? Jemma ducked to catch the look on his face . . .

            And found him laughing.

            She straightened, feeling more confused now than ever, as his hand fell away. He shook his head as his chuckling subsided, the smile still on his face. “So, this whole time you’ve been thinking . . .?”

            At the amusement in his voice, Jemma felt a sudden need to back up her argument. “You should have seen his relief when he met Dev—my brother’s boyfriend. I thought . . . maybe . . . I mean, Crieff is a small town . . .” Her voice trailed off as he laughed again under his breath.

            “Sorry,” he said. “If you only knew . . .” He shook his head again until his face sobered. He held up his hands. “Look. Like I said, I’m not getting involved. But I will say one thing.” He met her eyes as his hands dropped, his face extremely serious. The silence stretched out for such an unbearable length of time that Jemma’s pulse picked up. “Trust me. Fitz is interested.”

            For many hours after the conversation, Jemma would wonder how Mack managed to put so much meaning into so few words. _Fitz. Is. Interested._ He didn’t elaborate, and somehow, he didn’t need to. The slight raise to his brows, the tone of his voice—that was enough.

            Jemma felt herself blushing hot without the heat in the lorry as an excuse anymore. She opened her mouth, hesitated, closed it again. Questions formed on her tongue—but she couldn’t bring herself to ask them. Mack watched her, eyebrows raised, for a second or two longer, and then he turned back to his truck without a word.

            She watched as he got in, ignored Hunter’s apparent questioning, and put the engine into gear. The snow, long since seeped into her jeans and boots, finally began to tickle at her calves with cold as they drove away. But it was several minutes later when Jemma turned at last and walked up to the cottage door.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the refrain of "I'm sorry" and "thanks for being patient" is getting a little repetitive, so I'm just going to say: thanks a million billion GAZILLION to all the readers and reviewers who have stuck with me. Every little notification I get makes my day! 
> 
> I'm going to do my best to post the next one as soon as possible, always aiming at weekly updates - writer's block notwithstanding. I have the rest of this fic all mapped out, just need to fill in the gaps. ;)
> 
> Without further ado . . . chapter 8. I hope you enjoy!

  

* * *

 

            “Hey, Jemma, are you ready to go?”

            “Hmm? Sorry, what?” Jemma glanced up from her phone to find Daisy watching her expectantly.

            “I’ll take that as a no.” Daisy crossed their bedroom at the cottage and took a seat beside Jemma near the window, her eyes dancing. “Texting lover boy again?”

            “What? No! I mean, he’s not—”

            “Ah-ha.” Daisy snatched the phone from Jemma’s fingers with a deft flick of her wrist. “Your voice just went an octave higher. Suspicion confirmed.”

            “That’s not true,” Jemma said, struggling for the phone. Daisy held it out of her reach, fending her off with embarrassingly little effort.

            “Let’s see, what’s the rating on this one? R? Nah, too soon. PG?” Daisy’s eyes focused on the words as Jemma gave up her hopeless battle. “Scratch that. This is more G than _Bambi._ Jemma, what the hell?”

            Jemma’s eyes fell to the carpet. “I mean . . . to be fair, that film has some _very_ dark moments—”

            Daisy’s voice overpowered Jemma’s as she read aloud from the screen. “‘Hope your mum is all right. I wanted to let you know I’m a friend if you need one.’” Daisy lifted one sardonic eyebrow before continuing in a terrible imitation of a posh British accent: “And should you be available for squash on Sunday, I’d love to have a go, old chap—”

            “That is not what I sound like.” Jemma snatched her phone back and tucked it safely behind her, out of reach. When Daisy gave her a telling look, she shifted in her seat. “Is it?”

            “I mean, if you’re going for ‘totally _not_ into you in a romantic way,’ by all means, send that message.” Daisy sat back and crossed her arms, waiting.

            Jemma wanted to glare the smug expression right off her friend’s face, but deep down, a pervasive, squirming nervousness told her that Daisy was right.

            She was hopelessly bad at this.

            Daisy leaned forward, her grin growing wider. “ _Or,_ ” she began, suggestion heavy in her voice, “you could tell me why you’ve been Mopey McMopeface since Monday, and we can work up from there.”

            Jemma sighed. In reality, no sooner had she stepped through the cottage door after Mack’s revelation than she’d wanted to find Daisy and share the whole story. But she found the shower first—and as she was letting the steam and the heat wash over her, Jemma realized she wasn’t quite sure which parts to share. Fitz’s secret about his dad was his own. His sexuality—whatever it might be—well, that was his own, too. She had to focus on the one piece of information she knew to be factual.

            Fitz was interested in her. Non-platonically. Full stop.

            “I have reason to believe I may have been incorrect in my earlier assessment of the situation,” she said after a time.

            Daisy’s eyes flew heavenward. “God, I really need to start recording our conversations. Jemma . . .” Her gaze focused downward once again. “I could’ve told you that three days ago. I _did_ tell you that three days ago.”

            Jemma narrowed her eyes. “Let the record show that Daisy says ‘I told you so.’” Her tone was light, but as she crossed her arms, clinging to the warm wool of her cardigan, she saw Daisy’s smile narrow with concern. Giving in, Jemma retrieved her phone and its as-yet-unsent attempt at flirtation. She held it out to her friend. “I just . . . I mean . . . can you help?”

            Daisy actually cackled, rubbing her palms together with unfettered glee. “I thought you’d never ask . . .”

* * *

            Mack’s garage was empty for a weekday afternoon. Finding the main area unstaffed, Fitz let himself through the door marked “Employees Only,” alert for any sign of life—or, more specifically, any sign of Lance Hunter.

            Luck remained on Fitz’s side. The only movement came from Mack, who was head and shoulders under the hood of a Land Rover. As the door into the garage swung shut at Fitz’s back, Mack peeked out at him.

            “Oh. Hey, Fitz. Back already?”

            “Yeah. Just got in.” Fitz crossed to where Mack was working and took a seat on the nearest plastic chair. “Thanks again for the, um . . .”

            “Don’t mention it.” Mack tugged a dirty rag from his belt and began to rub the grease from his fingers. “Gave me a chance to dust off the truck.”

            As the only tow truck for miles, Mack’s vehicle was hardly in need of “dusting off,” but Fitz knew Mack well enough to see the kindness behind such a blatant falsehood. This was, he thought, Mack’s way of showing solidarity in light of the . . . unpleasant reason for Fitz’s trip to Glasgow in the first place.

            Now, two days later, Fitz and his mother were back home with nothing to show for their trouble except jangled nerves and the barrister’s unsettling hope that “they’d not need phoning again.” Fitz’s relief that the errand was over mixed with his guilt over being pleased at some unfortunate stranger’s death.

            That wasn’t his only reason for feeling guilty. True, his thoughts had been full of difficult memories over the past two days—flashes of his father’s smile or his rich, warm voice. But, just as often—or perhaps more—his mind had wandered back to Sunday night, to the memory of Jemma’s fingers twined in his. Even on the morning of his visit to the morgue in Glasgow, Fitz had lingered over the thought of Jemma’s eyes, her warmth, the feel of her steadiness beside him.

            Which made him a horrible person.

            By the time Fitz focused his attention on Mack again, he found himself the object of his friend’s concentrated observation. Tucking his rag back into his belt, Mack grabbed another chair and swung it over to where Fitz was sitting. “Something on your mind, Turbo?” he asked, his voice low, nonjudgmental.

            Nonjudgmental _for now_ , Fitz thought, breaking out into a mild sweat. Whatever Mack was expecting to hear, it probably _wasn’t_ that Fitz needed advice about a girl. Considering recent events, that should _not_ be his top priority. But he had no one else to turn to. And the situation was really getting desperate.

            Fitz cleared his throat. “Um. Well. Say . . . say, for instance, I don’t know, there’s this girl. And she theoretically, um, sort of, started taking off her clothes in your room? But she was changing,” he added, as Mack’s eyebrows jumped to span the distance of his forehead. “Like. Out of your view.”

            Mack blinked. Fitz waited. “Is there a question in there somewhere?"

            “Oh! Yeah. I mean, in this—hypothetical— _extremely_ hypothetical situation . . . why would she be doing that?”

            Mack sighed. “I’m not going to lie,” he said. “This is not what I was expecting us to talk about today.”

            Fitz’s guilt magnified tenfold. As his intestines tied themselves into knots, he decided then and there to beat a hasty retreat—

            But Mack leaned forward on his elbows, surprising Fitz’s attention back to his face. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, serious yet otherwise unreadable. He opened his mouth, and Fitz braced himself for the worst, until:

            “Start over. I’m going to need some context.”

* * *

            “Okay.” Daisy held the phone out to Jemma. “You do the honors.”

            Jemma scanned the fruit of their ten minutes of labor. _Hope you are doing all right_ , it read. _I’m sending good thoughts to you and your mum._ (A vague explanation to Daisy about “family stuff” seemed to do the trick.) _Maybe get together this weekend? xx Jemma_.

            She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and hit _Send_.

            “Oh, thank God,” said Daisy when “Delivered” finally appeared. She jumped up, tugging Jemma with her. “Now, come on, we’ve got things to see and people to do.”  
            “Do we?” asked Jemma, the sarcasm creeping back into her voice.

            “Well, that, and a rendezvous with some bridesmaid dresses at three o’clock,” Daisy replied, already halfway down the stairs.

* * *

            “—and then the t-shirt thing happened,” said Fitz, coming to the end of his story in a rush. “We didn’t speak until the next morning, when you came to give her a lift, and . . . well . . . you saw how that went.”

            “I did.” Mack’s tone was dry.

            “And I haven’t heard from her since.” Fitz sat back in his chair. “Should I have left the room? I _tried_ to leave the room. Should I have . . . I don’t know, complimented her? ‘Great pair of . . . of . . .’” He held his hands over his chest in a universal gesture.

            Mack’s expression was eloquent beyond words.

            Fitz cleared his throat. “See? Disaster.” He collapsed back in his seat, eyes on the grimy garage floor. “She’ll probably never speak to me again.”

            The “Employees Only” door flew open a second time, banging against the wall with such violence that the resulting noise echoed through the garage. Mack and Fitz both jumped, swiveling in their seats to discover the culprit.

            “That’s it,” said Hunter, gesticulating so wildly that his wrist hit the Land Rover’s mirror. Mack put a hand over his eyes. “Scout’s honor. I’m never speaking to her again.”

            Fitz tensed in his seat. “Er—”

            “Cross my bloody heart and hope to die,” Hunter continued, his voice growing in volume as he drew nearer. “Which is, in this case, _incredibly_ accurate, because I’d rather be dead than—oh.” His tone went from venomous to curious in an instant. “Fitz is here.” He glanced at Mack. “You never said Fitz was here.”

            “Didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Mack, in a resigned tone that said he now realized he should have.

            Hunter waved a hand. “Never mind all that,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been throwing a fit worthy of a teen drama. “What’s the news?”

            Fitz waited for Mack to respond, until Hunter stared at him with ever-widening eyes and an insinuating smile. “Oh—wait, you mean, from me?”

            “No, from the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Yes, of course I mean you!”

            Fitz looked to Mack for help, but he was still seeking comfort—or perhaps patience—behind the shelter of his fingertips. Fitz glanced back to Hunter, not quite sure how to continue. Somehow he didn’t feel confident that he could tell the t-shirt story again, this time with Hunter’s sure-to-be-timely interruptions.

            However, just as he opened his mouth to make excuses, Hunter blinked at him—once, twice—then threw up his hands with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, God, don’t tell me—you two _still_ haven’t sha—”

            Fortunately, Hunter never did finish his sentence, as he was interrupted by the text tone of Fitz’s mobile. Glaring across the garage, Fitz fished in his pocket and pulled it out, his fingers trembling when he saw the number flashing on the screen. _Jemma._

            “Didn’t you tell him we sorted it all out?” Hunter was asking Mack as Fitz opened the text. Mack mumbled something about not getting involved. Hunter began a vocal counter-argument, but Fitz tuned them out, distracted by the words on his phone screen: _Maybe get together this weekend? xx Jemma._

            What did the xs mean again? Kisses? A perfectly normal signoff in today’s world, Fitz knew, but was there meaning in the fact that she’d sent _two_? And she wanted to see him again—could that be real? Or perhaps she felt guilty, knowing what she knew about his family? Yes, that had to be it, he thought, misery seeping like cold porridge into his stomach. She felt sorry for him. Nothing more.

            “—want to make sure _someone_ in this bollocksing town gets some action this year,” Hunter was saying when Fitz tuned them back in. (He spared a moment for his gratitude at missing most of that conversation.)

            “So? What’d she say?” asked Mack, surprising both Fitz and Hunter into staring at him.

            “She asked if we could get together this weekend,” said Fitz.

            “So why do you sound like she stomped on your mother’s begonias?”

            “Um, okay, that’s a weirdly—specific—”

            Hunter waved a hand. “Story for another time. Seriously, though, why the long face?”

            “She’s only doing it because she feels _sorry_ for—”

            “Oh, for fuck’s sake—” And before Fitz could react, Hunter had the phone snatched from his fingers and was halfway across the garage floor.

            Fitz stood from his seat, but realized resistance was futile when Hunter disappeared back into the front of the shop, phone in tow.

            “You want my advice?” said Mack, watching Hunter with a blank expression. “Never take out your phone in front of him.”

* * *

            Jemma and Daisy had barely reached the end of the cottage drive when their relative silence was interrupted by the buzz of Jemma’s phone in her pocket.

            “That wasn’t fast at all,” Daisy teased, sliding over a patch of half-melted ice.

            Jemma crunched through the remaining snow, pretending to be calm as she tugged out her phone. In reality, her pulse was beating out a hasty rhythm in the back of her throat on its way to marching out of her chest. Her fingers shook as she opened Fitz’s reply.

            _Are you free on Friday? I know a place for some really nice Italian. Pick you up at 7? xx_

Jemma nearly dropped her phone in surprise. She must’ve made some kind of sound, for Daisy danced over ice patches, worry evident in her frown—until she read the text over Jemma’s shoulder.

            “Let the record show that Daisy says, ‘I told you so,’” she said, her mischievous grin spreading back into place.

* * *

            “Boom,” said Hunter, returning to the garage a minute later. He held Fitz’s phone over his head like a trophy. “Check and mate. Emphasis on the _mate_.”

            “Because you’re a friend who would never send a text from my number without my consent?”

            “Wrong-o.” Hunter reached them again and handed Fitz back his phone. “Other one. Discovery Channel style.”

            Fitz’s vision went spotty and gray as if he were about to pass out. When it cleared, he saw his text conversation, its visual evidence far too real to deny. First, there was his bit, asking Jemma on a—on a date—(his heart stopped). Then, there was her bit:

_Dinner sounds lovely. Seven it is!_

            His heart burst to life again, at about three times its usual pace.

            “You asked her to dinner. With me. On _Friday_.”

            “Just call me Cyrano,” said Hunter, pretending to inspect his nails. “Only without the nose.” He misinterpreted Fitz’s stare. “What? I read.”

            “That’s two days from now.”

            “Exactly. Not too short, not too long. Building anticipation and all that.” He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

            Fitz closed his eyes, wishing he would pass out for real, wake up in the hospital, and be told this was a fever dream.

            He felt a hand on his shoulder and his eyes popped open. It was Mack, who gave him an awkward pat before letting go. “Look at the bright side. She said yes.”

            An entirely different shade of panic clouded Fitz’s eyes.

            “She did say yes, didn’t she?”

            “Yeah—yeah,” Fitz said weakly. “She did. That’s the problem.”

* * *

            “Do you think I should look at other dresses?” Jemma called over the barrier between her dressing room and Daisy’s. “I mean, Italian means formal, right?”

            Daisy’s voice was muffled, as if she were speaking through layers of ruffled fabric. “I’m—having some—issues—here—”

            Jemma paused mid-struggle with her own bridesmaid dress. The fabric was beautiful, a rich sunset-gold that would suit the dusky rose in Daisy’s complexion and bring out the blush in Jemma’s. However, the, er, _design_ of the dress was posing some problems, starting with the back.

            Or, rather, the lack thereof.

            “Would you like me to give you a hand, dearie?” came the innocent voice of the shopkeeper, one Moira Ferguson, born and raised in Crieff.

            “No.” Daisy’s reply was weaker than normal, but no longer stifled by clothing. “I think I’m good. Jemma?”

            “Almost there.” Jemma shimmied her dress the rest of the way on—or at least “on” enough that it covered the important bits. As there was no mirror in her tiny dressing cubicle, she’d have to emerge into the main area for her first real inspection of the end result. She took a deep breath before pushing her curtain aside.

            Moira gasped. “Oh!” she said, her wrinkled hands flying to her cheeks in girlish admiration—a strange sight to see on her aging features. “Oh, you look lovely, dear.”

            Jemma managed a small smile in reply. She felt a little— _exposed—_ for her liking, but at least the dress had a long, silky skirt that brushed all the way to the floor.

            Daisy’s dressing room curtain slid open with the scratch of metal on metal. Jemma turned—and no longer had a reason to feign her smile. Daisy looked _gorgeous_.

            “You look amazing,” they said, both at the same time, and then laughed. Daisy hiked up her skirt to her knees and walked to the other side of the ancient shop, where a large mirror awaited them. Jemma hesitated before following. Her arms were engaged in crossing themselves over her rather scantily clad upper body—but she forced herself to abandon the effort and lift her skirt between delicate fingers instead. She’d have to get used to it eventually—

            But her thoughts blanked in surprise as she met her own gaze in the mirror. Yes, the dress employed shockingly little fabric between its halter neck and its natural waist—but its plunging neckline draped becomingly, revealing a tasteful bit of cleavage that Jemma had never before seen on herself. The fall of the waist suited her natural shape, emphasizing curves that were typically hidden behind layers of jumper and lab coat. And, as she twisted in the mirror to see herself from behind, the (rather pale) skin of her exposed back wasn’t terrible to look at, either. She felt . . . a little bit . . . sexy.

            She glanced at Daisy and found her busy fidgeting with her own neckline, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe we should get some double-sided tape.”

            “The coverage issue seems a bit more pressing for you than it is for me,” said Jemma. “No pun intended.”

            “Ha, ha.”

            “Seriously, though, you look stunning. Like a Bond woman.”

            Daisy turned to Jemma. “Thanks.” She smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself. In fact . . .” A dangerous note crept into her smile, turning it far less innocent. “Maybe you should wear _that_ to your date on Friday. I’m pretty sure they’d have to carry Fitz out of the restaurant on a stretcher.”

            “More like carry _me_ out on one,” said Jemma, turning back to the mirror with a more critical eye. Suddenly all the places where fabric could slip or cling or stretch were clamoring for her attention. “Because I’d rather die.”

            Daisy laughed. The atmosphere remained light and humorous as Moira came over and pinned them for a few alterations—hemlines here, waist-tightenings there. She claimed that the dress would feel “as secure as a straightjacket” when it was finished, a statement which forced Daisy and Jemma to avoid eye contact in a vain attempt to stifle more laughter.

            “There,” said Moira, sitting back on her heels after pinning the last of Jemma’s new hemline into place. “What do you think?”

            “The dress is wonderful, Moira,” said Jemma, and she meant it. “Thank you.”

            Moira winked with grandmotherly charm. “The girl is wonderful, too,” she said, rising to her feet. “That’s what my father used to say.”

            “Was this his shop?”

            “Yes, dearie, it was. And his father’s, and his father’s, too.” She grinned. “It’s the oldest shop for miles, you know.”

            “We noticed,” muttered Daisy under her breath as she and Jemma crossed back toward their dressing rooms. Fortunately, Moira’s hearing was not in a fit state to catch such sarcasm. Jemma sent Daisy a stern look in punishment, but its effectiveness was damaged by her struggle to keep a straight face. The shop _was_ rickety: low ceilings, dark lighting, an ancient fireplace covered up with cardboard that read “Watch for falling soot.” Some of the racks held dresses that looked nearly as old as Moira. But all that history held a certain kind of charm. Jemma was surprised to discover that the dress-trying errand, which had daunted her for many reasons, was actually turning out to be quite fun.

            Perhaps it was this element of unexpected pleasure that made Jemma slow to change out of her dress. Or perhaps it was her now pin-infested neckline, altered to hug her chest more snugly. Whatever the reason, she spent five minutes getting the halter neck over her head, which meant she hadn’t even begun shimmying out of the rest when the fire alarm went off.

* * *

            “I wasn’t sure if this was a beer situation or a whisky situation,” said Hunter, sliding into a seat at Mack and Fitz’s table. “So I ordered both.”

            When a server deposited their drinks a few minutes later, Fitz went straight for the whisky. Watching him down a shot, Hunter said, “Okay, maybe this is worse than I thought. Should’ve gone for tequila.”

            “Nothing’s a tequila situation,” said Mack, silencing Hunter with a look. “Fitz, come on, man. She likes you and you like her. What’s the catch?”

            Fitz set aside his empty shot and went for another. This one, he sipped. As the burn in his throat faded to a comforting tingle, he said, “I don’t see the first part as a proven fact.”

            Hunter took a draught of one the beers, either ignoring or forgetting about the foamy mustache it left behind. “Come again?”

            “What makes you think she likes me?”

            Mack rolled his eyes, shook his head, and reached for one of the remaining beers. Hunter, on the other hand, leaned forward across the table. “Oh, I don’t know, let’s see, could it be the fact that I asked her?”

            Fitz choked on his second sip of whisky. “You _what?_ ”

            Hunter shrugged. “I asked her. Just like that. When Mack was giving her a lift. Asked her what she thought about you. She said she didn’t think you were interested, by the way, which is girl code for ‘I’d hit it if he would.’”

            Fitz buried his face in his hands with a groan. Surely it was all some nightmare, the texting, the date, all of it. What must she think of him? Feeling sorry for him, he thought with certainty, and now doubly so, because nothing was more pathetic than being asked out on someone else’s behalf by a “friend.” She’d think he was about as experienced as a schoolboy. And she’d be right.

            “No, no, no,” he muttered, emphasizing each word by pounding his head on his forearms. He was thus engaged when the doors to the pub flew open and a trio of people hurried in. The pub fell quiet, but Fitz didn’t notice, occupied as he was with wanting to not exist in the present moment. It wasn’t until the server walked by and Mack grabbed his sleeve that Fitz looked up.

            Everyone in the pub was staring at the front doors, where two shivering girls and one old woman stood taking shelter in the warmth. Fitz could have cared less about anyone other than Jemma at the present moment, so he almost sunk his head to his arms again, but curiosity won out when he caught the expression on Mack’s face. Turning, he focused on the trio with more attention, and when he looked closer, he almost fell out of his chair.

            He recognized the old woman first, weirdly enough—everyone knew everyone in Crieff, and his mother and Moira were old friends from the Crafting Society. His brain filed this information away matter-of-factly before moving on to the two girls. The first one, Daisy, he registered with a sinking feeling in his stomach, because he knew she was friends with Jemma, and that meant—the next one—

            Once glance at Jemma and Fitz’s mental filing system came up empty for the first time in his waking life. He simply did not know what to do with the information he was receiving. Delicate golden fabric draping away from her waist, curving down her thighs—check. The pale, white skin of her back, almost luminescent in the pub lights—check. Beneath her arms, which were clutched to her chest, more of that silky gold nonsense-that-barely-qualifies-as-fabric, and, beneath _that—_

Does not compute.

            The deep rumble of Mack’s voice returned Fitz to the present. “We’re gonna need three shots of tequila,” he was telling the server. “Stat.”

* * *

            “Oooh, I knew that electric fire was a bad idea,” said Moira, wringing her hands. Jemma blocked out the words in order to avoid wringing the poor woman’s _neck_. Forget charm, history, and quaint little fireplaces with cardboard signs. Jemma would have been content to watch the whole shop burn to the ground—if _her clothing weren’t still in it._

“Oh, dear,” said Daisy from over her shoulder. “Jemma, we have a slight . . . problem . . .”

            “Oh, good, you’ve noticed,” said Jemma, trying to ignore the stares she could feel on her back—her _extremely bare and suddenly very cold_ back—from the rest of the pub. She had a tendency to become rather sharp when riled, for which she’d have to remember to apologize later. At that moment, she didn’t particularly care. She shifted her arms, the better to keep her dress’s slippery fabric in place across her chest. “I was beginning to think I was the only one.”

            “No, I mean, we have a _different_ problem in addition to our other, larger problem—”

            Jemma began to turn, careful not to step on her pin-spiked hemline. “Really? What could possibly be worse than—” But she stopped speaking when Problem #2 caught her eye from across the pub. “Oh. I see your point.”

            “Yeah. I hate to break it to you, but—” Daisy didn’t have to finish her sentence. Problem #2 was already on his way across the pub. Jemma cast her eyes around for an escape, but there was really nothing other than the snow-drenched street, although that was starting to look pretty tempting.

            “Should I stay? Go? Hover awkwardly in between?”

            “Just—try to find out when we can get our clothes back,” Jemma hissed. Daisy ducked away toward Moira, nodding covertly, just in time to avoid Fitz.

            “Um, hi,” he said. His eyes were very firmly on her face, Jemma was pleased to notice.

            “Hello,” she said. Some inner steel she hadn’t known she possessed was keeping her voice at an even pitch.

            “Are you . . . that is . . . here.” Jemma stepped back in alarm when he moved, but he was merely pulling off his jumper. He held it out to her in one hand, rubbing the back of his neck with the other and managing to avoid her eye. “You look cold.”

            The kindness behind this gesture was enough to bring a warm flush to Jemma’s skin. “I _am_ cold,” she managed to say after a moment’s silence. “However, I’m afraid one wrong move could bring the whole thing down.” She glanced to where her arms were pinning the top of her dress to her chest. “If you know what I mean.” Her skin grew warmer.

            Fitz cleared his throat, his eyes boring into hers. Was that a faint banner of red on his cheeks, too? “Of course. Right. I can help with that. I mean—here. Turn around.”

            Jemma turned, biting her lip against the sudden rush of affection that swept upon her at Fitz’s clumsy caution. She’d been so caught up in her own embarrassment that she’d forgotten about their date—but he didn’t seem to mind. He was too busy being the perfect gentleman. She blinked out through the pub doors to the street, waiting, and closed her eyes when she felt the brush of his jumper at the top of her head. His hands skimmed her shoulders for the briefest of moments, and the touch warmed her as much as the soft fabric that followed it. All too quickly, she found the jumper tugged neatly over he head and down her torso, the armholes waiting to be filled. Fitz let go.

            After a bit of shifting and wrangling, Jemma was able to turn around again, confident that she had both her wardrobe malfunction and her flushing cheeks safely in hand. One glance at Fitz’s expression, however, and she wasn’t so sure of the latter.

            “Thanks,” she said, hugging her arms around herself, pulling the warmth of his jumper closer. “It’s nice.”

            “Pre-warmed.”

            “I could get used to that.” What was she even saying? Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice. Now that she was covered— _for the most part_ , she thought, painfully aware of the clinging drapery around her hips—his eyes had drifted downward again, heavy-lidded. She struggled to land on neutral territory and failed utterly, adding, “Um, I’m really looking forward to Friday.”

            His eyes jumped to hers again. “Me, too.”

            “Should I dress up?”

            “Sorry?”

            Jemma smoothed out her skirt with nervous palms. “I mean, for dinner. Is it . . . somewhere nice?” _Stupid_ , she thought _, of course it’s somewhere nice . . ._

            “Oh.” A shadow crossed his face, and Jemma cursed herself even further, feeling the warm, contended moment slipping away. But then his eyes cleared, and he nodded. “Yeah. Definitely . . . definitely dress up. Again.”

            Jemma’s cheeks felt hotter than ever, but she nodded back. “Great.”

            “I’m looking forward to it.”

            “Me too,” said Jemma. Again. Her capacity for intelligent conversation appeared to be slipping fast, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

            Fitz cleared his throat. Yes, his cheeks were definitely a bit red, too, she thought, and it made her silly with happiness. “Well,” he said, “I’d better get back . . . to . . .”

            “Right. Me too.”

            “See you Friday.”

            Jemma watched as he turned and walked to his table, the back of his neck as red as his cheeks. She chewed on her lip again.

            “Right,” said Daisy from beside her, appearing at a suspiciously convenient moment. “The firemen are saying it was a false alarm. We can go back and get our clothes now.”

            “Mmm,” said Jemma, blinking away the image of Fitz. “Whatever you say.” She tucked her fingers into her sleeves, no longer in such a hurry to change.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: the continuing shenanigans of Daisy and Hunter, ft. THE DATE!!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, darling readers, for putting up with me! That's all I'm going to say because I don't want to make you wait a SINGLE MINUTE LONGER before reading this one. Enjoy <3

* * *

           Catriona tucked herself under her hand-stitched quilt with gusto. Downstairs, an impromptu sign on the teashop door read, “Closed this morning – back at 12 PM.” At her elbow, steam wafted into the sitting room off her mug of tea. Her favorite armchair, by now worn to the peak of comfort, welcomed her like a warm embrace, on her lap a much-loved detective novel. And it had just gone seven o’clock.

            She wouldn’t be disturbed for hours.

            No sooner had she turned to chapter one, however, then she heard a strange noise from down the hall. Could that be—music? And the thumping of footsteps? She threw off her blanket, dropping the book on her seat. Surely a break-in wouldn’t involve a soundtrack, but the alternative—that her son was awake at this time of day—seemed equally as improbable.

            Catriona inched down the hall to Fitz’s bedroom door, hesitating with her hand raised to knock. The music was jazzy piano— _Rhapsody in Blue_ —which was not a good sign _at all_. That was Fitz’s thinking music. Thinking music? At seven o’clock in the morning? “Fitz? Is everything all right in there?”

            “Just a sec.” The music cut off. Before she could blink, his door was open, his expression sheepish at he tried unsuccessfully to block her view of his room. “Everything’s good. It’s great. How are you?”

            Catriona felt her mouth fall open. Clothes were _everywhere_. Shirts draped over his desk, trousers laid out on the bed, piles of jumpers and one lone jacket at his nightstand. He even appeared to be hiding what looked like a red scarf behind his back. Lost for words, she clamped her lips shut and settled on giving him a _Look_.

            The sheepishness increased. “All right, I know, there’s no need for that,” he mumbled into the collar of his current button-down. He was fully dressed, she realized—and before breakfast, too!

            After taking a moment to recover from her shock, she said, “Fitz . . . is anything the matter?”

            “ _Everything’s_ matter,” he said. When she raised an eyebrow, he wrung the scarf in his hands behind his back. She heard him add “except energy” under his breath, then, more loudly: “Ahem. Nevermind—it’s a—science joke—um. No. Nothing’s wrong.”

            “Then would you care to explain which natural disaster recently occurred in your room?”

            “It’s just that . . . “ He dipped his chin lower. “I needed something to wear . . . for my date.”

            Catriona blinked. “I’m sorry?”

            “For my date. Tonight. With Jemma.”

            She stared.

            “Jemma Simmons, you know, the girl from the—”

            “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I remember.” Catriona folded her lips together to hide a smile. “And what time did you wake up?”

            Fitz waded through clothing to the lone mirror on his wall, frowning at his reflection as he first buttoned his collar, then unbuttoned it. “Six o’clock.”

            _Six o’clock!_ Catriona’s smile became even more difficult to contain. _That_ more than anything revealed just how important this date was to her son. “And will you be wearing that scarf, too?” she asked innocently.

            Fitz flushed as red as the fabric in his hands. “I don’t think so.” He shoved it into a desk drawer and out of sight.

            “Hmm,” was all she said.

            “What do you think?” He turned to her, leaving his collar open, his blue linen shirt tucked into dark gray trousers. As she met his eyes, Catriona had a flash of her four-year-old son on his first day of primary school, showing off the light-up shoes that he had modified himself (with his dad’s help).

            She let out her breath and smiled, but the worried crease did not leave Fitz’s brow. Braving a daunting pathway over to his bedside table, Catriona plucked up a thick gray cardigan and held it out to him. “You look quite the handsome gentleman.”

* * *

 

            Jemma blinked across the table at Fitz. He was wearing a white lab coat and the world’s most ridiculous safety goggles, but somehow he looked hotter than ever. She tried to lean her elbows on the table, casual-like, but she was tightly swaddled in something that held her back. Fitz smiled, his face wrinkling up, and her heart did a cartwheel. She moved her arms again. Still no luck.

            “Jemma?” Their server appeared, and though she looked like a stranger, she spoke with Daisy’s voice. “Hey, Jemma, wake up.”

            Jemma opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. Blinding sunshine filled the room, overpowering the last shadowy images of her fading dream. Her blankets, caught tight around her arms, held her pinned in a sweaty cocoon. She pushed them frantically away. “What time is it?”

            Daisy stood over her, frowning. “Almost one. I was starting to think you died.”

            Jemma leapt out of bed. “One o’clock? _One o’clock?_  And you’re waking me up _now?_ ” She raced over to the window seat, where she’d been working the night before until nearly dawn. One of her science notebooks was there, yes, and her to-do list for today—but—

            “Looking for these?”

            Jemma whirled on Daisy, who was now holding a very dangerous set of index cards. Daisy cleared her throat for emphasis before reading from the top of the stack. “Conversation ideas: recent Nobel prizes. Agree/disagree? Discuss findings.” Daisy met Jemma’s eyes with a decidedly sardonic look as she moved that card to the back and read from Card #2. “Favorite physicist and why?” She flipped to Card #3. “Life imitates art, art imitates life re: advancements in technology and science fiction. Discuss.” Daisy’s arms fell to her sides. In a faux-nervous voice, she said, “But, Professor Simmons, I forgot to do the reading from last week—”

            Jemma crossed the room in three strides, retrieving her index cards with a tug. “It was a precautionary measure,” she hissed, stacking them safely back on the window seat.

            “It’s adorable.”

            That made Jemma feel slightly better.

            Her mood continued to improve as she went downstairs for breakfast. Most of the family was out on wedding errands, save for Dev, who was likely hiding somewhere with his nose in a book. _All the better_ , thought Jemma, following Daisy into the kitchen. Fewer people meant less teasing, and less teasing meant calmer nerves.

            Theoretically.

            “Coffee?” Daisy asked, holding up the empty pot.

            “Yes, please,” said Jemma. “It’s that kind of morning.”

            “Afternoon.”

            “Right.” A quick rummage through the fridge produced bread, butter, and eggs, which Jemma began to crack into a bowl. “Do you want anything?”

            “No, thanks. I ate earlier.” Daisy’s voice was distant, distracted. Jemma frowned, glancing over her shoulder to inspect her friend more closely. Sure enough, something was . . . _off._ For one thing, Daisy kept glancing between the clock and the window as if she expected a bomb to go off at any time. For another, she was wearing makeup, and her hair was curled, which meant . . . she’d been awake for a while.

            The world really _was_ turning upside-down.

            “Are you expecting someone?” Jemma asked, turning back to the eggs and cracking one more into her bowl. She found a fork and began to stir, pretending to be absorbed in her work, but really listening closely for Daisy’s response.

            “Oh, no, not exactly.” She came to stand beside Jemma, fiddling with the lid on the tub of butter. “I was just . . . admiring the view.” She waved at the window.

            Jemma glanced away from her eggs to look outside. She saw dirty snow, trees, and a stripe of blue sprouting puffs of cloud like daisies. “Ah, yes. The famed ‘still life of road with sky.’”

            Daisy mumbled something into her shoulder.

            “What was that?”    

            “Coffee’s ready.” Daisy tried to glare, but its effect was ruined by a hint of rose in her cheeks. She busied herself with pouring out two mugs as Jemma smirked into her eggs.

            Friday of the first week. What had her father said? Trip was coming up early . . . just in time for the first weekend . . . Jemma shot a glance across the kitchen, her grin spreading. Daisy was excited to see Trip!

            Daisy brought her the coffee just in time to catch the knowledge spreading across Jemma’s face. Sipping her own mug demurely, Daisy said, “Say what you want. I’ll deny everything.”

            “Eep! Are you serious? When did this start? Tell me everything!”

            Daisy crossed to the window, pretending not to have heard. “Still life with road is actually pretty good.”

            “Ugh, Daisy! Come on, I’ve told you everything about Fitz—”

            Jemma realized her mistake as soon as Daisy spun around, her mischievous grin sliding into place. “Really? _Everything?_ I don’t know about that . . .”

            Jemma’s eggs became suddenly very interesting again. She got out a pan, turned on the stove, and began to scramble them. Daisy crossed back to stand beside her, far too stubborn to let this slide.

            “Let’s make a deal,” said Daisy. “You promise to spill all the deets on your date tonight, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

            Jemma side-eyed her over the eggs. “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t a fair bargain?”

            Daisy’s face became the picture of innocence. She blinked a few times, fluttering mascara-ed lashes. “I have no idea. I’d never give that impression.”

            Jemma failed at holding back her laugh. She stirred her eggs, shaking her head. “Fine. _Fine._ I’ll tell you where we’re going. But you have to _promise_ to keep it to yourself this time.”

            Daisy squeezed her eyes shut for a victory fist-pump. Opening them, she saw Jemma’s eyeroll and sobered. “I solemnly swear that I won’t say a word in the group text.”

            “And you won’t tell Arthur or Henry if you see them?”

            “And I won’t tell anyone in your family. Including Dev.”

            “Good.” Jemma narrowed her eyes, stirring the eggs one last time before taking them off the heat. From the way that Daisy drifted back to the window, biting back a smile, Jemma felt that somehow she’d gotten the lesser end of the bargain.

* * *

            Fitz cleared his throat, staring into his own blue eyes in the rearview mirror. He’d checked his own reflection so many times throughout the day that he was beginning to disassociate himself from this stranger staring back at him. This pale and shifty blighter was the sort of nervous that got followed around by the shopowner in a Tesco Express.

            _Brilliant_ , he thought, disappointment diving through him like a bird to the ocean, plucking out the weakest from his school of thoughts. _She’ll think I just robbed someone._

             But it was too late to go back now. His gaze slid from the car to the cottage beyond, lit and welcoming in the evening gloom. A halo of gold surrounded it, cast by the yellow light flickering through its windows. When he opened the car door, he could hear music from inside, like he’d walked into a bloody Christmas card. 

            Someone answered on his third knock. He’d expected one of her brothers, perhaps, checking to make sure this “date” met their standards. What he got was a tall, muscled champion wearing a form-fitting t-shirt and an easy smile.

            “Hi.” He stuck a hand out, the smile growing. American, his accent said. “I’m Trip.”

            Fitz shook his hand cautiously.     

            “And you must be Fitz,” Trip said as the silence continued, his tone leading.

            “Yeah, that’s me.” Fitz dropped his hand. “I’m here to pick up Jemma.” Who seemed to have a wide selection of handsome strangers showing up at her house each day. 

            Her pale white fingers curled into view around Trip’s arm, a stark contrast to his dark skin. He noticed her there and stepped aside, giving her space to get to the front door. Fitz couldn’t help but notice Trip’s eyebrow-lift of appreciation.

            But then his gaze fell on Jemma and there was no space in his head for his own inadequacies. It was all full of her.

            She was smiling shyly through the sweep of her hair, unsure. Long lashes and red lips sucked him in first, until he knew he’d blinked once, twice, maybe three times at her face before glancing away. Away—down the curve of her shoulders, hugged as they were by the lace of her sleeves, to where her neckline plunged in a dangerous V. The dress hugged her curves everywhere, emphasizing her small roundness, suggesting handholds that his palms itched suddenly to try. He flexed his hands, put them in his pockets. Safely tucked them away.

            “Hello,” he said, after what felt like ages.

            Her dark eyes were unreadable. Fitz had forgotten about Trip entirely, until he said, “Nice to meet you, Fitz,” and turned to leave them alone.

            “Um. Yeah. You too.” But Fitz couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jemma’s hesitant smile. Was she nervous, like him? Or was she aware of how completely and utterly she possessed the power to destroy him, if she chose? “You look beautiful,” he said, and it came out as a whisper.

            The shy smile crept slowly up her features, beguiling him. “Thank you,” she said, her voice just as soft. A burst of laughter from the kitchen, followed by loud chatter, made her step toward him. She may have even reached a hand in his direction—or perhaps that was a trick of the dim lights. “You look nice, too.”  
            Fitz cleared his throat. “Shall we?” He stepped back, waved a hand at the door.

            “After you.”

* * *

            Fitz decided not to look at her once they were in the car. If he did, surely she would see the desperate affection in his eyes. He’d scare her away.

            He cleared his throat. As they left the cottage drive and turned onto the main road, he asked, “Do you like Italian?”

            She was quiet for a moment as if taken aback. _Bloody idiot_ , thought Fitz. _It’s too late now if she doesn’t_.

            “Yeah, it’s nice,” she said at last, her voice so soft it barely rose over the churning and grinding of the car on snow. “Very comforting.”

            “Sorry?”

            He felt her shift in her seat. His knuckles tightened, going from white to red to white again on the steering wheel. “I used to go out for pasta when my exams were over. To celebrate. It was always so . . . comforting.” She let out her breath in an embarrassed laugh. “Silly, I know.”

            “Not at all.” Fitz did glance over then, accidentally, and found her eyes boring straight into his. “I mean—that is—” He looked back at the road. “I’d always go for a Sunday roast after exams. Same feeling.”

            “Only you’d have had to wait until Sunday.”

            His knuckles relaxed at the teasing in her voice. He felt himself smiling. “Exactly. So yours is better, in the end.”

            When they reached the restaurant, Fitz parked slowly, prolonging the moment when he’d have to get out and face her. By the time he made it around to her side, she had the door partway open. She unfolded from the passenger seat like an origami bird, gently and then all at once, so that Fitz had no choice but to meet her eyes. He froze with his hands on the door. She smiled.

            He felt himself smiling back.

            “Jemma, I—”

            “Before we go in—”

            They both spoke at once, their voices hushed in the evening gloom. A streetlight lit her features as she laughed. “You go first.”

            He hurried to lock and shut the car door. It provided him with a few more moments to build his courage, but when he glanced back at her, he found they weren’t enough. “Er . . . I wanted to . . .” He swallowed. “I wanted . . .”

            Her expression entranced him, waiting and hopeful as it was. Her skin was pale in the darkness. At her side, her fingers twitched in his direction, as they had in the hallway of the cottage, as if—could it be? As if she wanted to touch him.

            “Nevermind. Forgot what I was going to say,” he said, miserably, and turned to cross the street toward the restaurant. He’d never build up the courage. Even if he did, she wouldn’t reciprocate, and then he’d have ruined their date—the date she agreed to go on for God-knows-which reason—and she’d never speak to him again.

            Or perhaps she’d never speak to him anyway.

            He kicked a bit of ice out of the road. At this point, he could see why.

            “Fitz, wait!” She hurried across the street after him. He paused and turned back, adding guilt to his misery.

            “Sorry,” he said as she caught up. “The reservation is for seven-thirty. We’d better go in.”

            She frowned. “But—”

            Half-afraid she’d ask him to turn around and take her home, Fitz hurried to open the door of the restaurant, pretending not to have heard her protest. As he held it open for her, music, conversation, and lights spilled out, silencing her. Her brows were drawn as she passed him and went inside.

            “Good evening,” said the host, a wiry man with a gap-toothed smile. “Table for two?”

            “Yes,” said Fitz, standing over Jemma’s shoulder. “We have a reservation.”

            “Name?” asked the host, his eyes lingering on Jemma.

            “Leo Fitz.” It came out as a warning growl, despite Fitz’s best intentions. The host raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, flipping through his reservation book instead.

            To Fitz’s surprise, the eyebrows rose even higher when he located Fitz’s name. He glanced up from his notes, stared wide-eyed at Fitz, and then glanced down again. “Of—of course. Mr. Fitz. Excuse me. Right this way.”

            Jemma followed him first, Fitz trailing after, confused. Perhaps Gap Tooth over here had thought better of belittling a reserved customer? Other than that, he couldn’t explain the change in the host’s manner, which had gone from mildly antagonistic to obsequious in a second.

            “I _do_ hope you’ll enjoy the table,” he was telling Jemma as they crossed the restaurant. “The view is lovely this time of year.”

            This, too, seemed strange to Fitz, but he knew they would be seated and left to themselves in a few more moments, so he ignored it. He had bigger things to worry about, like how he would embarrass himself completely as he had out in the car. As he had in all other encounters with her, really.

            Why she was even here, he could hardly guess.

            “Here we are,” said the host, leading them up a short staircase to a loft that overlooked the rest of the restaurant to one side and the back of the building to another. Through a gabled window, Fitz could see the tops of trees, currently dusted in snow. A string of golden lights lined the window, adding to the hushed and delicate atmosphere of the space. A candle atop the table completed the feeling of intimate relaxation.

            Fitz blinked.

            “This is lovely,” Jemma was saying as the host helped her into her seat. “Thank you.”

            The host gave a little bow, which would have been highly amusing were Fitz not distracted by confusion. As he took his own seat across from her, the host addressed them both. “Any food allergies or restrictions I should share with the kitchen?”

            “Oh, no, thank you,” said Jemma, and Fitz muttered out much the same.

            “Very well,” said the host, his stare lingering on Fitz. He seemed to be warring with himself, wanting to convey both servility and judgment in one look. Again, Fitz felt the bizarre sensation that, were he another person looking down on this scene, he would be laughing. In it, he found his sense of humor unable to live up to the task.

             “I’ll be right back with your champagne,” said the host, disappearing before his words could process. A few seconds after he’d gone, Fitz opened his mouth to protest.

            “Oh, Fitz, this place is wonderful!” Jemma turned an enthusiastic smile from the window onto him. “Did you see the view?”

            Fitz closed his mouth.

            Fortunately, Jemma continued before he had to speak. “And did he say _champagne_?” A shadow crossed her face. “All this must be . . . I mean . . . really, you shouldn’t have.”

            _I didn’t_ , Fitz wanted to say. He opened his mouth to say it. The words leapt from his brain to his tongue, but at the last moment, he bit them back. Jemma’s smile, so cautious yet appreciative, danced in the candlelight. Her eyes sparkled from across the table, suffused with warmth, her cheeks lightly pink. He couldn’t bear to make it all go away by revealing the restaurant’s mistake. So, instead, he said, “I’m glad you like it.”

            Her smile grew, as did her blush. She dropped her eyes to the table, running a finger over the row of forks at her left. The delicate clink of cutlery on plates rose like a lullaby from the restaurant below.

            _Oh, God,_ thought Fitz. _What the bloody hell have I done._

* * *

            “ . . . And here we have an _amuse-bouche_ of goat’s cheese and pistachio—”

            Their server, a freckle-faced woman with a friendly smile, set down a plate of small delicacies between Jemma and Fitz. Over it, Jemma tried to catch Fitz’s eye, but he seemed to be growing more and more embarrassed each time she did it. She couldn’t help herself. The bottle of champagne alone cost more than her outfit.

_A lot_ more.

            Her plate deposited, the server topped up their champagne glasses with a smooth motion. Replacing the bottle in its urn of ice beside the table, she asked, “Is there anything else I can get you for the moment?”

            “No. Thank you,” said Fitz, rather quickly. She ducked her head and left.

            Jemma reached for one of the delicacies on the plate right as Fitz leaned forward. Their fingers brushed, lighting every nerve up her arm and down her spine. There was something about her cells that tuned to his, she thought dazedly. Some biological anomaly.

            Otherwise, this magnetism defied science.

            Fitz busied himself with his food while she watched. Was he impervious to it, then, this pull like the moon on the tides? He seemed so, the way he never lifted his eyes to hers. She, on the other hand, couldn’t bear to look away from him. When she was forced to blink, or turn aside, he continued to fill all her other senses.

            But how could he spend all this money and effort on a date he didn’t really care about?

            She’d puzzled over this riddle since the moment they sat down. The car ride over was enough to convince her that Fitz had set up this date under external pressure—Catriona’s, perhaps, or Hunter’s. Otherwise, why did he avoid her? But then to be led to their own private table—to be given a bottle of the finest champagne—to be treated to a _custom menu_ —

            It made no sense.

            “What do you think?” asked Fitz around a second bite of food. It was his first attempt to start a conversation since they’d been seated.

            “Very nice,” she said. “I love pistachio.”

            Something flickered across his face as he reached for a third bite.

            “What?”

            He shrugged. “Nothing, it’s just—seems like a random thing to love.”

            Her breath snagged on the edges of her throat for a moment. How easily she had thrown around the word _love._ Attempting to save the conversation, she said, “Oh, no, not at all! Have you ever tried pistachio gelato?”

            He shook his head.

            She was rambling now, but at least ice cream was a safe enough subject. “Trust me, it’s amazing. It will change your life.” She grinned. “My family went on holiday to Italy—I think I was fourteen at the time—and it was the first thing I tasted after we got settled in our hotel. It was heaven.” She remembered the rich, earthy sweetness as if it were yesterday. “Have you ever been to Italy?”

            The smile faded from the corners of Fitz’s lips. He shook his head. “Mum and I don’t travel much, not since . . .”

            Jemma’s skin prickled. So much for _safe_.

            “Of course,” she said hurriedly. “I should have guessed.” That sounded worse. “Is there anywhere you’d _like_ to go?” she asked, thinking of her index cards. They were burning a hole in the pocket of her coat, hanging over her seat. Within reach, if it came to that.

            “Hmm.” Fitz paused in making short work of the last item on their plate. “I’d like to go everywhere, really. Deep down. But I’m not sure I’d be brave enough, in the end.” He picked up crumbs with his fingers and licked them off. Jemma’s eyes followed his finger despite her best efforts. It was hard to catch his words when he added, “I’m a bit of a homebody, as you might’ve noticed.”

            Jemma shook herself free of the momentary entrancement, picking at a pill on the tablecloth instead. “Oh, so am I, in a way. But I think . . . under the right circumstances . . .” She shrugged, meeting his eyes again. He was watching her closely, his blue eyes fierce with concentration. Their intensity caught her off guard. She’d been longing for his look all evening, and now that she had it, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. “You know.”

            He still hadn’t blinked. Shouldn’t a person have to blink more often than this? “What would the right circumstances be?” he asked, very softly.

            She swallowed, reached for her champagne, took a sip. It was crisp and sweet and heady—it tasted the way Fitz’s smile felt. “I’d like to have someone with me,” it gave her the courage to say. “On my adventures.”

            The smile at the corner of his lips came back. “Me too.”

            Jemma’s pulse began to rise. How had it come to this? The perfectly safe topic of ice cream had led her dangerously astray, and now she was too far down the path to turn back. As she’d been getting ready for this date, she’d reminded herself that she had two weeks, no more. And yet, they had the project for Coulson. They had possibilities.

            This conversation became sharply important. It jutted up in her mind like mountains between the collision of two tectonic plates: _We mean a lot more than we’re saying._

            At least, she did. She couldn’t speak for Fitz.

            Plucking up all her courage, she said, “Fitz, I have to tell you something.”

            He blinked at her. Finally.

            “I . . . really . . . that is to say, I . . .” She wetted her lips with another sip of champagne. “I have to tell you that—”

            “Enjoyed that, I see,” came the server’s voice. She lifted the empty plate from between them, blocking Fitz from Jemma’s view. “Did you have any questions?”

            Silence.

            “No, thank you,” said Jemma miserably.

            “Oh. All right, then.” The server frowned, clearly aware of the charged atmosphere of the table but unsure of how to proceed. She appeared to land on routine. “I have the salad course here, a lovely mix of dark greens with—”

            Jemma tuned the rest out. Once the salad plates were distributed and the server had disappeared, she said to her forks, “I’ll be right back.”

            Fitz may or may not have replied—she hardly noticed.

            The toilets were downstairs and at the back of the restaurant, as far from their table as she could get. Staring at herself in their dimly-lit mirrors, Jemma saw a haggard woman who had aged beyond her years: pale cheeks, hollowed eyes. It was the lighting, she told herself, re-applying her lipstick. But she felt a sting behind her eyes.

            Why, _why_ did she lose all sense of rationalization whenever Fitz was involved? It went against her very nature, this complicated barrage of emotion. Or, rather, it bubbled up around him when she was able to keep it contained around everyone else. He broke her control—in more ways than one.

            “Damn,” she muttered to the mirror. “Damn, damn, damn.” It should have been easy. _I like you and I want to be around you as often as possible for the immediate future. Please disregard any earlier communications to the contrary._ She let out a strange, hysterical laugh.

            _I’ve had way too much champagne._

* * *

            “Shit,” said Daisy. “Shit shit shit on toast.”

            “That’s disgusting.”

            “Did you see her face?” Daisy lowered her binoculars, turning to face Trip as her brows drew low. “Something’s wrong.”

            “Oh, you mean, besides our creepy stake-out of Jemma’s date?” He raised an eyebrow. “Because this feels pretty wrong to me.”

            “Will you stop saying that? I’m only trying to help.”

            “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Taking BFF to a whole new level of weird.” But he raised his own pair of binoculars to the window all the same.

            “ _Ha!_ See, I knew you cared.” A smug smile played across Daisy’s features, but it disappeared again when Trip lowered his binoculars. He was frowning.

            “She’s gone,” he said.

            “What!” Daisy checked again. Sure enough, through her standard-issue SHIELD night vision specs, she could see Fitz sitting alone at the table, looking morose. “Crap. This is bad.”

            “Maybe she’s on her way over here.” Trip sounded mildly amused at the idea, as if he would appreciate seeing Daisy get a takedown.

            “I didn’t think Fitz would blow our cover.”

            “He doesn’t _know._ Right?” When Daisy lowered her binoculars to glance over, she found Trip shaking his head. “Damn, this is messed up.”

            “You can’t ditch me. We had a deal.”

            Trip’s disapproval evaporated as his face melted into a smile. There was something slow and sizzling about that smile, like being on a rocking chair on a sticky-hot day.

             God, he was making her domestic already.

            “I remember,” he said, snaking his arms around her waist and tugging her into him. His chin rested on top of her head.

            “You’re distracting me,” she said, though she leaned into his embrace. “Problem solve now, distraction later.”

            “Distraction now,” Trip suggested, nuzzling his face lower until he was kissing the side of her neck.

            “Mmm,” she said, letting her eyelids drift closed. Then: “Nice try!” She pushed herself free of his hold to find him laughing. Her neck still tingled where he’d been kissing it. “You almost had me.”

            The smile was back. Despite all their training, her knees wanted to shake together. “Almost. My least favorite word.”

            Daisy rolled her eyes at him and returned to the window. She thought she saw faint silhouettes of movement in the loft of the restaurant across the street. Raising her binoculars, she froze.

            “What is it?” Trip asked, moving to her side with his own binoculars before she could respond.

            Daisy smiled. Across from them, sharply visible in the lime-green of night vision, two figures were leaning together behind the gabled windows. “Success,” said Daisy. She grinned over at Trip. “ _Almost_.”

* * *

            “Fitz, I need to tell you something.”

            Somewhere behind his solar plexus, his insides were turning to stone. He stood up, rather haltingly, because standing up seemed like the right thing to do. From the intensity of her gaze, the ferocity in her voice, he knew what she would say. In desperation, he asked, “Does it have to be . . . now?”

            She stood up straighter. “Yes.” That was quiet, then: “Yes,” more loudly. “I’m afraid it does.”

            She marched over to the window, stopped, crossed her arms across her chest. Stared at him. Waiting.

            He swallowed, then followed her more slowly to the window, away from the view of the restaurant. His worst fears confirmed—she was leaving.

            “I—”

            She held up a hand to stop him. His teeth clicked closed. _Traitors_ , he thought desperately, wanting to say something, _anything_ , to make her stay.

            She dropped her hands to her sides, then clasped them behind her, out of view. She was restless now. Her eyes lifted to his and held him as he continued turning into a statue of himself. Numb and cold and unmoving.

            “I like you,” she said, looking up through dark lashes. She spoke with all the vehemence of an angry person, as if she were making an argument that he wouldn’t want to hear. “From the moment I met you, I knew—I felt—” She stopped. “I’ve never felt this way before, about anyone. It makes me . . . stupid. Illogical.” A smile twisted one side of her lips. “You can guess how much I hate that.” But then the smile faltered, dropping away, and the intensity was replaced by softness in her tone. “I know I’ve been awkward, and hopeless, but I just had to tell you, before—because—I couldn’t go away not having said anything at all.”

            His throat made a sound, he thought. Some short moan of surprise. The beginnings of a word. But the rest wouldn’t form, wouldn’t come. He could only stare at her, at the way her chest was rising and falling. Her collarbones beat a silent rhythm against the neckline of her dress. His eyes traced up to the sweep of her hair, the light in her eyes, all of it saying _I mean it, it’s true, it’s true!_ So real that he couldn’t possibly be sleeping, though he knew he must be—he knew it must be a dream.

            “Fitz? Say something. Please.”

            He opened his mouth, tried again. This time, a few words came. “Are you sure?”

            A flash of a smile, here and then gone. “Am I sure? Oh, for God’s sake, Fitz, yes. I’m sure.”

            “But I . . . but you . . .”

            “You don’t have to say anything back,” she said quickly, holding up her hands again, palms-out. Her cheeks were turning red now, her eyes drifting down. “I know this is . . . sudden, but . . .”

            His hands moved without his brain’s permission, and thank goodness for that, because he felt the moment slipping away and knew he had to act. His palms sanded against her palms, sliding into place. She started when she felt his touch, but his fingers locked between hers, clasping her there. Pulling her toward him. They stepped together, inching closer, so that her face was turned up to his. Her lips parted in surprise. His fingers squeezed her harder. “Jemma, I . . .” She began to smile. “I’m hopeless. I can’t—I wasn’t sure—I thought I’d scare you away.”

            She was grinning in full force now. “I’m made of stronger stuff than that, you know.”

            He let out his breath. “I know. Like I said . . . hopeless.”

            “So . . . you . . .” Her eyes were round. “You want to go on another date?”

            He laughed. _I want to go on a hundred dates_. But he was still afraid of breaking this delicate joy. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I very much would like to go on another date. Please.”

            She laughed too, a small, warm sound. Her hands tightened between his. They were both losing circulation. “And this one’s not even over.”

            His eyes fell to her lips. There would be time to build courage for that, he thought. Time tonight. And another date, another chance. “Lucky for us,” he said, and he meant every word.

* * *

             Jemma wasn’t sure when the server appeared, distracted as she was by Fitz’s lips, which had caught her in their gravitational pull. But before she could move closer, there was the sound of a throat clearing, the wrench of Fitz stepping away. The warmth that went with him.

            “Sorry to interrupt. I’ve the next course here, but . . .”

            Fitz and Jemma took their seats like guilty schoolchildren.

            Once she was gone, Jemma found herself being stared at with enough intensity to make up for a hundred missed glances, downcast eyes. “What?”

            “Nothing—it’s just—” He smiled. “You _like_ me?”

            “Of course I do. You _dolt_. Wasn’t it obvious?”

            He made a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff. “I thought you hated me!”

            “Hated—but—I thought _you_ were . . .”

            “A miserable grumpy bastard with no manners?”

            “Well, that.” She smiled. “And gay.”

            He choked on his champagne.

            “It was when you met Dev,” she said, playing with her row of forks again with nervous fingers. “You just looked so . . . _relieved._ ”

            Another sound like a choke made her glance up, worried. But she found he was fighting back laughter.

            “I thought he was your _boyfriend_ ,” he said when he could finally speak.

            “My boyfriend! You mean . . .”

            “Like I said before. Hopeless. Full stop.”

            Jemma’s cheeks hurt with the intensity of the smile stretching up her face. Her fingers moved from her forks to her champagne glass, spinning it. “Are you saying that you liked me, even back then?”

            His own fingers weren’t far away, she realized. Delicate and gentle, they cupped the stem of his glass as if it were a precious flower. She stared at them, unblinking, because she lacked the courage to meet his burning blue eyes. “I liked you from the moment we met,” he said, in a voice so low she almost missed it.

            She looked up sharply. He was staring at his glass, his face tilted downward and cast in shadow. _If I was brave enough to start this conversation,_ she thought, _I’m brave enough for anything._ She reached her hand across the table and tugged his fingers into hers. “Me too,” she said, drinking up the widening of his eyes and the heat of skin with pure pleasure.

* * *

            “Awwww,” said Daisy, her binoculars glued to her face. “They’re adorable.”

            “Let’s be real,” said Trip, his own binoculars already stashed back in their bag. “You’re disappointed that they didn’t kiss.”

            She glanced over at him, lowered her binoculars, sighed. “Fine. Yes. A little.”

            “Still worth it?”

            “Oh, my God, yes.” She came to stand beside him, stopping an inch short of contact. “I’ve never seen Jemma so happy.”

            His arms found their way back to her waist, tugging her closer. “Besides,” he said with a sleepy smile, “I think I know how to fill our kissing quota for the night.”

            She grinned back. “Good thinking. After all, a deal’s a deal.”

            After a few minutes of tongues against lips, they surfaced for air, Trip tugging her into a hug. Daisy nuzzled his shoulder, leaning into his solid warmth. His chin rested on her head once more.

            “When does Coulson get here?” She felt rather than heard the purr of his voice.

            Just like that, her skin went cold. She leaned back to get a view of his face, which had gone from that catlike grin to a worried crease of brows. “Next Friday. We have a week.”

            His hands came up to her temples, sliding into her hair. “Seven days.” His thumbs slid across her cheekbones as if swiping at invisible tears. “Seven months wouldn’t be enough.”

            She closed her eyes. “I wish it were different. Out in the open. You know I hate sneaking around.”

            A half-laugh. His breath stirred her hair. “Says the girl who just spent two hours and five hundred pounds stalking her best friend’s date.”

            Her eyes popped open. “I hate sneaking around _with you_.”

            “Thanks?”

            She couldn’t help but smile at his easy humor, but it was accompanied by a prick of pain between her lungs. Coulson’s rule—that none of his team could date one another—was the only thing she didn’t like about him, about her time with SHIELD.

            “Don’t look like that,” Trip said, kissing away the lines on her forehead with a delicate touch of his lips. “We’ll figure something out.”

            Daisy leaned up so that his lips fell lower, meeting hers. _We’ll try_ , she wanted to say, but his kisses locked the words back in her mouth where they belonged.

* * *

  
  


  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da!!! Stay tuned for the end of Date #1, more dates, and more Planning for the Future in Chapter 10. We're getting closer to the end now! 
> 
> A few notes on references in this chapter:
> 
> \- Fitz's "thinking music" being jazzy piano was inspired by Murder by Mistake by the lovely recoveringrabbit. If you haven't read that fic, seriously, TAKE THIS AS A SIGN AND GO READ IT NOW. Now, I tell you!!! You won't regret it!
> 
> \- Fitz's "science joke" was basically filched from Bill Nye. :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I don't even know what to say, except that I'm back and I hope you can forgive me for being gone in the first place. Thank you to everyone who read and commented since last chapter. Every one of you is as responsible for this chapter as I am. THANK YOU!!!
> 
> This chapter is a little bit shorter due to me wanting to post it as soon as possible. I may keep that up as long as it means posting more frequently. Hopefully you can forgive that, too. :) 
> 
> Now, to the Neverending Date!

* * *

            Bobbi dropped her night-vision binoculars into her lap. “All right. You paying in dollars or beers?” Her smirk was unmissable, even in darkness.

            “Fitz, you innocent bastard.” Hunter lowered his own binoculars, reaching for his pocket with his free hand. To Bobbi, he spat, “Pounds, if it’s all the same to you.”

            She shrugged. The movement seemed to tug her smile even larger.

            Finding his pocket empty, Hunter turned to the back of the flat, facing the hulking pool of darkness in the corner that was Mack. “Help a friend in need?”

            “Kinda like you do?”

            “Exactly.” Hunter held out a hopeful palm, waiting, but Mack simply glared. At least, Hunter assumed the hostility in Mack’s silence included a glare. In the darkness, it was difficult to be sure. “Seriously. This next bit isn’t cheap.” He waggled his fingers.

            Mack’s sigh sounded like the preamble to more lecturing, but fortunately, he was cut off by the chime of Hunter’s cell phone. Abandoning his reach for cash, Hunter dug out his mobile instead, swiping it awake to read the text message that had just arrived.

            _Phase 1 complete. The eagle has dined._

Hunter tapped out a quick reply. _Righto. Phase 2 imminent._

Then he added, _It’s about. To go. Down._

“You know, in the _real_ spy world, we don’t use words like ‘phase 2’ and ‘imminent,’” Bobbi said. She’d been reading over his shoulder.

            He hid the phone back in his pocket quickly. “Right. More like, ‘evil,’ ‘traitorous,’ ‘spawn of Hell.’” He turned back to Mack’s corner. “Why did you bring her again?”

            “Two words: responsible adult.”

            Hunter raised an eyebrow. “And what does that make you?”

            Hunter caught the sound of Mack standing from whatever piece of furniture he’d scrounged up in the empty flat. “Leaving.”

            “Oy! But you’ll miss Phase 2!”

            “That’s the plan.” Mack stepped close enough for the ambient streetlight to illuminate his rueful shake of the head. “If it’s anything like Phase 1 . . .”

            “He’d prefer not to be here when the nice men in uniform come to take you away,” Bobbi cut in using her “Hunter needs something explained to him” voice.

            “If I weren’t about to prove myself as the best friend in the universe,” said Hunter, “I’d be a little bit hurt.” He turned back to the window, pulling his binoculars into place. The shadows that were Fitz and Jemma stood from their table. _Perfect timing_.

            “Huh. How does that work?”

            Hunter ignored Bobbi.

            “Because that requires you to have feelings.”

            Mack sighed at her. At least, Hunter hoped it was at her. He had half a mind to sigh himself. Only his version involved more four-letter words.

            “Right,” said Mack. “I’m out.”

            “Lucky you,” said Bobbi, her voice as flippant as before.

            Hunter kept his eyes on Fitz and Jemma as they moved to the ground floor of the restaurant across the street. “Night,” he said as an afterthought, just before he caught the sound of the flat door closing behind Mack.

            After several seconds of silence and inactivity, the sound of a car pulling up at the restaurant lured Bobbi to Hunter’s side.

            “So, no kiss during Phase 1,” she said. “How much do you want to put on kissing during Phase 2?”

            Hunter didn’t lower his binoculars or turn aside. He was secretly proud of this fact and of the way his voice came out steady and almost nonchalant. “What, and put a price on love?”

            Just then, Jemma appeared on the restaurant steps, followed by an attentive Fitz. They were as blushy and awkward as a couple of teenagers—which, Hunter supposed, they practically were. He started to smile despite himself. Then, he said, “Fifty pounds.”

            Bobbi gave a low chuckle of approval. “You’re on.”

* * *

            As Fitz followed Jemma out of the restaurant, he made a mental note to research the chemical properties of champagne. His glasses—how many had there been? Three? Four?—appeared to have bestowed previously undiscovered abilities upon his person. First, when the bill had arrived, it had magically read, _Amount owed: 0.00._ Then, as he followed Jemma down from the loft, fearing the gap-toothed host might arrive at any moment to proclaim the mistake, Fitz realized joy was bubbling up in his chest like the liquid gold carbonation in his champagne flute. He’d become a being of happiness and air. Each glass must have heightened his senses to extremes.

            He was the Spiderman of champagne.

            Jemma herself was the proof of what had occurred. As he watched her descend toward the icy street, his eyes sharpened over curves and planes that had gone previously unappreciated. The peppering of freckles at the base of her neck. The shy way her fingers hovered after tucking hair behind one ear. The curve of her swanlike ankles.

            He wanted to kiss every new part of her that he was discovering, one item at a time, leaving nothing out.

            He was instantly glad that telepathy was not one of his new abilities. He was fairly certain that, infatuation or not, Jemma would _not_ want to be hearing his thoughts right now.

            She paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned to smile at him over her shoulder. He stumbled a bit, but covered it by gripping the handrail.

            Jemma Simmons liked him. She. Liked. _Him._

            When he drew even with her, she reached out, as she’d done at her house and outside the car. (He knew that now. That she’d been reaching on purpose.) Instead of clasping his fingers, though, she touched the sleeve of his cardigan.

            “Fitz,” she said, and his newly sensitized ears pricked at the sound of her speaking his name. “That was wonderful. Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome,” he said, not wanting to move, not wanting to shake off her touch. Forget that he could neither take credit for nor explain what had just occurred inside.

            A terrible thought struck him then. Maybe this was a dream. A hyperrealistic, wish-induced fantasy. In a few moments, perhaps he’d wake up at six o’clock to chill darkness and the day to live over again. For real this time.

            It didn’t matter. Whatever this was, he would wait to question it until it was all over. He leaned into her fingers on his arm. “Shall we?”

            She smiled, taking his cue and linking her elbow though his as if he were walking her into dinner, not away from it. He felt the heat of her beside him and wanted to shiver.

            “We shall.”

            They started to walk toward the street, but that was when Fitz noticed a sleek black vehicle blocking their way. A driver in a suit stood against the driver’s side door. He straightened when Fitz looked in his direction, dropping crossed arms. “Mr. Fitz?” he asked.

            Fitz was so surprised, he let go of Jemma’s elbow. “Um. Yes?”

            The driver nodded, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation and not a merry trip to Opposite Land. “Excellent. Whenever you’re ready.” He stepped to the back door and opened it, waiting.

            Jemma turned to Fitz, her hands clasping themselves to her chest. “Are you serious? Fitz, this is . . .” She stopped. Swallowed. Blinked up at him. Apparently, he’d never find out what “this” was.

            Some part of him—the un-champagned part—knew that hopping into cars with strange men in suits was not something he should be encouraging his date to do. Never mind that the evening appeared to have been planned by his fairy godmother. Never mind that the car in question was seriously underequipped for travel on ice and snow.

            Actually, he thought, perhaps they should mind that.

            He still didn’t.

            He glanced away from Jemma, back to the driver, who watched a patch of sky over Fitz’s shoulder with a bored yet unhurried look. Then, a movement on the other side of the street caught Fitz’s eye.

            This was a dream, Fitz realized. Though why Mack was coming out of a half-finished apartment building in his dream date fantasy, Fitz had no idea. And why, when Mack looked up, his expression became oddly guilty. . . Fitz could only guess.

            Then, guilty expression still intact, Mack nodded his head. Just once, a dip of the chin, but clearly discernible in the snow-lit night. It was as much a greeting as it was a nod in the direction of the car. An invitation. An explanation. Kind of.

            As much a one as Fitz was going to get.

            Fitz glanced back to the driver. Back to Jemma. She was staring across the street with slightly narrowed eyes, as if trying to see what had made Fitz tense up. He forced himself to let out a breath and touched her, just once, on the shoulder. Her eyes whipped back to his.

            “Surprise?” he said.

            She grinned. He could not help but smile back.

            Then he followed her into the car.  

* * *

 

            “Only you would choose a motorcycle. In Scotland. In winter.”

            “I’m assuming you speak of my untouchable reputation as a wise, responsible individual,” said Hunter, tossing Bobbi her helmet. She snorted.

            Just then, Daisy and her annoyingly handsome friend—Tray? Trip? Something American and vaguely noun-like—appeared from the gloom of the building next door. Daisy stopped when she noticed the bike, eyes widening.

            “No. Down, girl,” said Trip, holding out an arm to stop her from rushing over. “Have we already forgotten Moscow?”

            Her eyes were bright. “No. But I was hoping you had.”

            “Not even the concussion was enough for that,” said Trip. His tone was both authoritative and genial. It was somewhat unsettling to witness.

            “Doesn’t matter,” said Hunter quickly. He swung a leg over and Bobbi climbed on behind him, clasping him with her arms and thighs as if they _didn’t_ burn through leather. “Bike’s already full.”

            “Great.” Trip began to steer Daisy down the street. “We’ll be right behind you in the rental like the sane, life-loving people we are.”

            “Enjoy being boring,” said Hunter before kicking the bike to life.

            As they roared down the street—subtletly had never been his strong suit—Bobbi leaned in to shout, “Jealous, much?”

            “Of the fact that they get to ride without you? Very.”

            Considering they were still in town, they weren’t going fast enough for the wind to eat up Hunter’s words. He felt Bobbi sit back a bit, but he could tell from her silence that she was probably smiling that smug, knowing smile. Damn.

            He cleared his mind as he took them out of the village on the Edinburgh road. Or, rather, an icy-sharp blast of cold Scottish air did the clearing for him. That, and the knowledge that Trip wasn’t the only one lucky in love tonight.

            Hunter preferred to think of himself like a particularly finicky housecat. He liked to think that he didn’t need anyone except for food, entertainment, and the occasional enjoyable experience of putting fear into men’s souls with a look. Unfortunately, he’d realized not long into his marriage that Bobbi was the housecat, and he was the Labrador retriever.

            He needed people. Specifically, he needed people to like him and be liked by him in return. Deep down, on his darkest of dark nights, he’d admitted to himself that he hid a few puppy-like qualities at the root of his secret soul.

            It was horrible.

            But, Fitz was one of those people whom Hunter had decided was deserving of loyalty. Once earned, this loyalty was—despite Hunter’s best efforts—rather difficult to do nothing about. When he saw a friend in need, he couldn’t help but act. Of course, he covered it all up with charm and English sarcasm, hoping that no one would notice.

            So, when Daisy texted him—having somehow contrived to get his number in ways that led to discouraging Bobbi-comparisons in his head—he jumped at the chance to help out. Or, as Mack put it, “invade Fitz’s privacy.”

            All the evidence of the evening had proven that Fitz's privacy was in desperate need of some invasion.

            “Right here,” called Bobbi from behind him, startling Hunter back to the present. The gleam of the motorcycle headlight caught a fork in the road just in time. Hunter leaned his bodyweight into their turn, feeling oddly comforted by the fact that Bobbi’s hands didn’t tighten or tense at his waist. She trusted him. Not for anything important, mind, but at least as the driver of her vehicle for twenty minutes.

            Soon enough, they reached their destination: Crieff’s old community cinema. Hunter killed the bike in the shadows of the building’s edge. Fitz and Jemma would be taking the scenic route, so he had to make sure the bike was invisible when their car pulled up.

            Bobbi was off the bike before the engine fully died. Hunter felt a rush of cold at her absence. He slid after her, his movements careful, and found her standing beneath the front doors, staring up at the marquee.

            In bold letters it read, _MISTAKES WHICH IT IS USEFUL TO MAKE_.

            “Hmm,” she said as Hunter reached her side. “Never heard of it. Is it French?”

            “It’s not even grammatically correct,” said Hunter. He shrugged at her. “It was Daisy’s job.”

            “I thought you were responsible for Phase 2?”

            He chose to ignore the jibe in her voice and pushed his way into the cinema instead. “Even a genius accepts help from time to time.”

            “And you know this how . . .?”

            He found a way to ignore this one, too, focusing on lighting up the dark lobby instead. Some eccentric landowner had commissioned the building, creating it halfway between his own land and the town, which was why it eventually fell out of use. However, it was still occasionally maintained by someone with half a heart, because it was clean, dry, and had all of its original velvet seating.

            “So, what next? Evil genius takes on the popcorn machine?”

            “Actually . . .” Hunter waved toward the refreshments counter. “Daisy left the supplies over there. Cheers for volunteering.” He went into the cinema’s only theater without looking back.

            It was going to be a long night.

* * *

            “I have no idea where we might be going,” Jemma said. She spoke into the window, leaning so close to the glass that her breath made a tiny circle of condensation against the Scottish night. Then she glanced over at Fitz.

            He was glad when her look made his own breath freeze in his throat. It stopped him from admitting that he had no idea where they were going, either. After a second, he managed a weak smile.

            She slid away from the window, back toward him, and he felt his smile get weaker. “Can I interest you in a nightcap?” she asked, her tone light. She waved toward the minibar built into the side of the backseat.

            His champagne powers were beginning to wear off. “Er, yeah. Why not?”

            “My thoughts exactly,” Jemma said, a smile creasing her eyes. She pushed a button and the minibar popped open. “When in automobile . . .”

            “Do as the automobiles do?”

            She laughed. Maybe his powers weren’t gone entirely. Not yet.

            Their selection included a bottle of Scotch old enough to run for parliament, a can of whipped cream, and a thermos of—“Hot cocoa?” Jemma’s eyes widened as she twisted off the lid. The sweet, comforting smell of chocolate and cinnamon filled the air between them, warming the car by scent alone. Fitz took a deep breath, his head already filling with visions of Christmas, of cold mornings, of the way his bed felt in the minutes between waking up and the sound of his alarm.

            This settled it: he was definitely in a dream.

            Jemma was already pouring it into two mugs. “Do you take whipped cream?” she asked, balancing it all on her knees in a brave act of sacrifice in the name of deliciousness. Luckily, their driver was taking it slow.

            “Please,” he said, matching her playful tone, and in a second, she was handing him over a steaming cup.

            Jemma replaced the thermos in the minibar before lifting her own mug in a mock salute. “Cheers,” she said. She hesitated, a line appearing between her eyes, and then she seemed to come to a decision. “To many more enchanted evenings.” Her voice was quiet but determined. As if she were daring him to accept her toast.

            And why shouldn’t he? In this unreality, Jemma Simmons liked him. They were drifting through Scotland in the back of a car worth more than his entire house, probably, drinking hot cocoa and sitting mere inches apart.

            As if she were reading his mind, her leg shifted ever-so-slightly and he felt her thigh brush his.

            Fitz leaned into it. He looked her right in the eyes and said, “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

 

 

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I mean? Neverending! We still have one more chapter of This Date and then perhaps a preview of dates to come. Dates, plural. 
> 
> And then, the wedding approaches. Guests arrive. Plot ensues...
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is still with me!!! :D


End file.
